by Cory Barclay
Salvatore the benandanti stood bravely between the crowd and animals, calm and happy. As the wolves surrounded the man for the kill, Salvatore’s arms flew up in a flurry, like he were conjuring a spell, and he let out a whistle, much higher-pitched than Heinrich’s, bringing everyone’s hands to their ears.
Instantly, the wolves stopped in their tracks, mid-charge, sliding down on all fours, staring submissively up at Salvatore, their purple tongues lolling to the sides.
Everyone stood stunned, except of course Salvatore who merely smiled and gave a curt nod to his audience.
Dieter took this divinely auspicious moment to shout, “My friends, do not fear the man with hate in his heart!”
With his last line of defense neutralized, Heinrich raised his leg and, with a swift and powerful kick to Beauregard’s back, sent the butler careening down the staircase. His gun fired wildly in the air as his head slammed hard into the railing, crumbling him into an unconscious, bleeding heap at the foot of the stairs.
Immediately, several peasants ran past the still-docile wolves to the unconscious butler, pummeling the man’s skull into an unrecognizable mass of bone and gray matter with their crude farming tools and makeshift weapons—showing no mercy for the man who moments earlier had killed one of their own for no reason. Meanwhile, the rest of the mob, led by Sybil and her friends, walked around the bloody scene toward Heinrich and Dieter who had now ascended to the top of the landing.
Taking one last look at the angry group approaching, Heinrich shouted, “I warned you all!”
And Dieter locked eyes with Sybil, a calm, gentle smile on his face. It was a smile that told her not to worry.
That he was at peace.
That he had done all he set out to do: revolutionize the townsfolk of Bedburg, and lay eyes on his beloved wife and son.
Sybil felt tears stinging her eyes. She reached out her hand, willing herself to touch Dieter’s hand one last time, even though he was far from her grasp.
Then, with a swift and precise slash, Heinrich dragged his dagger across Dieter’s throat and threw him down the stairs into the onslaught. Blood spurted everywhere, spraying across the wall and stairway. Bouncing helplessly down the stairs, Dieter’s hands still tied behind him, his body twisted and jerked before coming to rest near Sybil’s feet.
“NO!” Sybil shrieked, dropping to her knees. She let out a bloodcurdling scream that could be heard in the heavens, as the crowd looked on in stunned horror.
Georg, Rowaine, and Wilhelm raced to comfort the dying man, kneeling beside Sybil. But Dieter’s eyes were already still and lifeless, his blood pooling under him and spilling down the remaining steps.
And with that, the crowd went wild, forging up the stairs, around and over their fallen hero and his mourning loved ones, to dispense justice upon his murderer.
But Heinrich was gone.
As the crowd pushed its way up the stairs, too many bodies bottlenecked their advance, giving Heinrich enough time to escape down the hall. When he came to the room that he’d locked Hugo and Hedda in, he kicked open the door.
No one was there.
Slamming the door shut, he ran to the window and looked out. The shouting and pounding of feet got louder down the hall. He lifted the window up and a cool breeze swept across his face. Jumping over the windowsill, he rolled onto the roof, then crawled to the edge, just as the first peasants burst into the room.
Cristoff, the tavern owner, immediately ran to the open window. He poked his head out to see which way Heinrich had gone. Glancing to the side, he spotted Heinrich slinking away and turned back to tell his comrades. But he never got the chance. A shot rang out from Heinrich’s pistol, catching the left side of Cristoff’s forehead, slumping him across the windowsill as his head dropped forward. Martin and two others ran to his aid, pulling his body back inside. At the sight of the dark, bloody dot above his left eye, Martin roared, then leapt out the window, hitting the roof in a run and following the crumbling roof plates that Heinrich had left in his wake.
When Heinrich reached the far end of the roof, away from the window’s line of sight, he scooted his toes to the edge and peered down at the fifteen-foot drop to the ground. A carriage was parked not far from the drop, its driver, Felix, keeping the horses in line with his whip as they neighed and snorted. Heinrich glanced back over his shoulder as Martin rounded the corner, approaching as fast as he could on the unsteady roof tiles. Turning onto his hands and knees, Heinrich lowered his legs slowly over the side of the roof, gripping the roof’s edge tightly with his fingers. He inhaled deeply, then pushed off with a gasp, his body plummeting to the ground for what felt like eons.
Hitting the ground hard on his feet, he felt a crunch of pain through his ankles and shins. He hobbled toward the carriage, which had already begun rolling away under Felix’s direction.
As Martin neared the edge of the roof where Heinrich had dropped from, he reached to the back of his belt and pulled out his only weapon, a dagger. Watching Heinrich half-limp, half-run to the carriage, Martin cocked his arm back and flung the knife as hard as he could as Heinrich reached for the carriage’s side door.
The dagger punched into the side of the carriage, two inches from Heinrich’s head. Martin cursed as he watched Heinrich and the coach disappear into the misty fog.
All was quiet inside the carriage, a welcome respite from the madness outside. Dark curtains covered the windows rendering the interior black as night. Shuddering off his adrenaline, Heinrich closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. After several deep breaths, he began to smirk.
He’d made it.
“Hello, father,” a voice said, shattering his quiet.
His eyes shot open, staring across the carriage into the darkness. As he squinted and his eyes acclimated, two figures took shape.
Hugo and Hedda, sitting across from him.
Baffled, he sat up in his seat, his eyes moving from Hugo to Hedda, then back to Hugo.
“Hello, son,” he said, feigning calm. “I’m glad to see you came to your senses about this entire ordeal,” he said, shaking his head.
“Yes, father, I have come to my senses.”
Heinrich nodded. Then both were quiet.
Hugo noticed his father’s hand slowly slipping around behind his back. They locked eyes for a moment—the young man’s big and brown, his father’s narrow and gray. Then, while his father’s expression remained pathologically serene, Hugo saw the glint of steel. But the younger man was quicker—and well-trained by Ulrich. He lunged forward with his own dagger as Heinrich’s knife, still bloody from its work on Dieter, swung around just as the carriage hit a bump, sending both men to the carriage floor.
“Hugo!” Hedda cried, watching helplessly as Heinrich’s knife arced from the side, aiming for Hugo’s intestines. But Hugo’s left arm shot out at the last second, catching Heinrich’s wrist, as his right hand plunged his own dagger into the right side of Heinrich’s chest.
Heinrich gasped, then pushed his own weapon forward, stabbing Hugo in the side, before reeling back and howling like one of his wild wolves. Hugo pulled out his blade and thrust it back in, this time catching Heinrich in the stomach.
Between clenched teeth, blood began oozing from Heinrich’s mouth. Suddenly realizing he was fading fast, his expression shifted from unbridled rage to the grim reality that he was losing strength. His dagger dropped from his hand. But Hugo’s fury was relentless. Fighting back his own pain, he struck Heinrich a third time, this time piercing his father’s black heart.
At the moment of contact, Heinrich’s eyes seemed to brighten in amazement, staying fixed on Hugo’s, until his mind recognized the battle was over and his eyelids began to flutter. Then his body shuddered one last time before the beast took his final breath and was no more.
Hugo slumped in his seat, trembling, blinking uncontrollably, breathing heavily. At the next bump in the road, he lurched to his side and Hedda reached over to him. “You’re hurt!”
He wanted to be strong, especially at this pivotal moment, but he was dizzy. Suddenly, he couldn’t breath, his heart pounding in his ears. He reached for the seat for support and as Hedda screamed, he crumbled to the floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The battle raged on at Bedburg. From atop the southern ramparts of the city, Commander Tomas Reiner directed his men, waving his sword in one direction or the other to indicate which way they should go.
A small group of Protestants had dashed through the gate into the city, taking refuge in a shadowy alcove. Tomas’ men—devout Catholics with fury in their eyes—had surrounded them. Tomas watched as the religious warriors butchered each other, until it was impossible to distinguish one side from the other.
With grim resolve Tomas followed as the gory scene unfolded, so absorbed he almost forgot to pay attention to what was happening right in front of him. Two Protestant soldiers had cleared the ramparts, jumped onto the balcony from the other side of the wall, and dispatched an unsuspecting Catholic soldier with an axe.
Tomas’ only warning came when someone called out his name. At the last second, he looked up as the man with the axe, his eyes red-rimmed and savage, reached back to throw it. Tomas ducked and the axe flew over his head, but just barely.
Tomas gritted his teeth and charged the man, shoving his long blade up into the man’s stomach. Yanking down hard, he split open his flesh, his entrails dangling out his belly. The man howled as he tried to reach down and gather his guts but Tomas kicked him in the side and he flew over the rampart ledge.
Another soldier approached Tomas, but faltered when he saw his friend fly off the ledge. Tomas took the opportunity to lunge, raising his blade high. The man shrank back with his own blade up, ready to parry. But Tomas shifted the downward angle of his attack and came in sideways, stabbing into the man’s left armpit and piercing his heart.
Tomas soon realized that most of the men he faced weren’t soldiers. At least not professionals. They were laymen roused by the ambitions of Gebhard Truchsess, who promised them fortunes and wealth if they backed him. But they hadn’t expected to meet such fierce resistance.
Gebhard had lied to them about Bedburg’s able defenses. Tomas was a born military man. Even when he wasn’t acting as a bodyguard or escort, he’d always maintained his fighting prowess by practicing in the dueling rings. And his garrison consisted of like-minded men, not peaceful farmers or traders, but practiced killers raised and trained at war and carnage.
Tomas and his men were truly a force to be reckoned with—as the dead Protestants who’d just tried to attack him had come to find out too late.
Suddenly a trio of attackers appeared. They glanced at one another, apparently deciding which one would step up to Tomas’ flashing blade. When none did, Tomas decided for them. Stepping into the guard of one man, he easily sliced down the man’s chest, causing his two friends to turn and run as Tomas screamed, “Cowards!”
Then another approached, swinging his sword wildly toward Tomas. As the two parried, the man’s comrade knelt down and began rummaging through the pockets of a dead soldier. Suddenly Tomas’ eyes went wide when the comrade came up aiming a pistol at him. A deafening boom went off and Tomas wondered where he’d been hit. But then the man aiming the gun fell to the ground, clutching his chest. Glancing back, Tomas saw a Catholic soldier had come to his aid and gave him a curt nod of thanks.
Turning back to the man he’d been parrying with, who seemed temporarily frozen by the gunshot to his friend, Tomas lunged with dangerous precision, skewering him under the ribs. Before the man fell, Tomas stabbed him twice more in rapid succession, killing him before he hit the ground.
Somewhat out of breath, Tomas returned his gaze to the battle down by the southern gate. With a sigh of relief, he saw that his men had successfully fended off the Protestants, sending them to a hasty retreat, though many were cut down as they attempted to flee back out the southern gate.
Tomas looked further down the battlefield, to the green plains beyond the walls of Bedburg. Though he’d successfully staved off the first round of attacks from Gebhard’s Calvinist army, they were still gathering in force down the hill from Bedburg, wheeling in cannons, to ready another assault.
This was not what Tomas wanted to see. Once Gebhard realized his army had nearly twice as many soldiers as Tomas’ Catholic garrison, he would order a full assault. Tomas knew he couldn’t meet such an attack head on. He could only act defensively. It would be suicide to send his men directly out against the much larger Protestant army. Eventually his forces would be overwhelmed and scatter.
If something didn’t happen soon to change the landscape of the battle, Tomas feared he would lose the city.
And this was only the first hour of conflict.
As night wore on, Tomas had his dead and wounded taken away to the church to prevent the enemy from knowing his mounting casualties. Bishop Balthasar was overseeing the rescue efforts with help from his priests and nuns, preparing the dead for burial, giving last rites to those mortally wounded, offering first aid to the lightly wounded, and offering water and soup to those beleaguered with dehydration and famine.
Near the southern ramparts, Tomas met with several of his top captains to discuss battle strategy.
“Gebhard’s first charge failed,” one captain commented. “I doubt we’ll see much of him for the rest of the night.”
An older, gray-haired captain disagreed. “If he realizes his superior numbers, he’ll strike again. This time without retreating at the first sign of defeat.”
The two men looked at Tomas, who nodded. “I agree with Herr Germaine,” he said, referring to the older captain. “While we still have room to move, we must retaliate quickly.”
He had a small map of the city in front of him, rocks weighing down various parts against the wind. Different sized rocks also signified the location of Gebhard’s and Tomas’ armies.
From a few paces back, Lord Alvin looked on. “How do we do that?” he asked. Though not a battle commander, he did hold a significant amount of land in Bedburg, earning him a place at the strategy table.
Tomas moved a pebble beside the large rock that denoted Gebhard’s main force.
“We flank them,” he said, “by moving two small groups out from the eastern and western gates and circling around Gebhard’s lines.”
“If they’re seen, they’ll be surrounded and slaughtered,” Germaine said, frowning.
“That’s why we send them now, while they still have the cover of night,” Tomas replied.
Germaine crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know if we can afford to send out such troops. That would seriously reduce our forces inside the city walls.”
“As long as Gebhard remains oblivious to our numbers, we should be fine,” Tomas said.
“And how long do you think he’ll remain oblivious?” the young captain asked.
Tomas sighed. “The forces I’m considering sending won’t be footsoldiers. They will be cavalry. Skirmishers. It will be a lightning attack. Strike, then retreat—just enough to scare them, give them pause.”
Lord Alvin smiled. “I like that. Why didn’t you say that to begin with, Tomas? It’s a worthy plan.”
“I still don’t know if it will help us . . . in the long term,” Germaine said.
Tomas frowned at his most experienced captain. He didn’t want to argue with the man. The quickest way to lose morale was for soldiers to see their superiors bickering. But Tomas pressed on.
“If I die on this battlefield, Captain Germaine, you’ll be the one to take my place. And when that happens, you’re free to lead the army as you wish. But until then, what I’ve described is the plan. At the very least, it will buy us time.”
“Buy us time for what?” Lord Alvin asked.
“For me to think of our next plan,” Tomas said, frowning again. “Now, who will lead the charge?”
When no one spoke up, Captain Germaine sighed. “To make sure it goes without mishap,
I will.”
Tomas smiled, resting his hand on Germaine’s shoulder. “Your loyalty and fearlessness is unfaltering, captain. I promise you your deeds will be remembered.”
Late into the night, Tomas sent his men out the eastern and western gates. The soldiers he chose were specialized for this type of covert operation. Riding into the countryside on steeds with padded hooves and no steel to clank, they moved with stealth and precision.
Germaine led the group from the eastern gate. If all went well, the two groups would move from Bedburg, forming the outline of a heart around Gebhard’s army and attack from the rear. Once they’d frightened the Protestant camps and killed a few men, maybe even captured a captain or two, they’d quickly flee into the night and return to Bedburg by dawn.
Tomas wasn’t expecting a major victory here, just something to reinvigorate his outnumbered forces and cause the enemy concern.
An hour after the men parted Bedburg, he heard the first cries of battle.
Clenching his teeth, he watched the horizon and saw smoke rising from the sound of guns, and the ringing out of steel-on-steel. But steel-on-steel was not what he wanted to hear. That meant swords clashing and the plan had been that his men would not engage in close-quarters combat.
As the next hour passed and the sounds of shouting and battle continued, Tomas grew more nervous. Two hours later, the cavalry returned to Bedburg and a soldier approached Tomas with a battle report.
“Captain Germaine is dead. The western attackers went unnoticed and hit Gebhard’s flank hard, but they were waiting for our eastern attack. Germaine was one of the first to fall, and when he did, it demoralized his men. We had to escape before we were massacred, sir.”
Tomas cursed under his breath. He’d forgotten that Bedburg was home to numerous Protestant sympathizers and turncoats. Clearly, Gebhard had gotten advance word of his battle plans.
