Paulus came up from behind and patted Lukas encouragingly on the shoulder. “Don’t let the idiots upset you,” he whispered. “Just go ahead and fight the way we practiced it. They’ll be amazed.”
Giovanni and Jerome now also stepped out from behind the curtain, and the battle could begin.
At first, the three boys attacked Lukas one by one, and he withdrew, apparently in fear, but then with a few well-placed thrusts, he beat them and disarmed them. Then, with much shouting, they charged him all together. Paulus played the part of the crude bully, thrashing his sword around wildly at Lukas. Giovanni and Jerome kept trying to outdo him in the dance, but each time, Lukas cleverly evaded them, spun around, and threw his coat and rope at his opponents, who got tangled up in them and fell to the ground again. Lukas concentrated completely on each of his movements, trying to shut out all the noise around him and thinking only of himself and his respective opponent, in order to avoid making any mistakes.
For the first time, there were cheers from some spectators, and the whistles and jeers finally died out. Evidently the people understood that the boy had real talent.
At this moment, Bjarne began a loud drumroll, and Paulus, Giovanni, and Jerome stepped back with a few bows. Now Dietmar von Scherendingen entered the arena. Threateningly, the master swung his longsword around, switching from one position to the next and then making mock attacks on Lukas, like a dancing berserker. A few times, Scherendingen’s huge blade whistled past Lukas’s face, but he didn’t retreat, just as they had agreed earlier.
“Ha! Now the old warhorse will blow out his lights!” the older farmer yelled. “He fights differently than the three boys.” He looked around for confirmation, but most spectators were staring transfixed at the two swordsmen who appeared so unequal. Lukas glanced at the crowd. Surely most of the people here knew that this battle was a sham, but they seemed to have forgotten that and were hoping to be surprised.
Just as Lukas was about to turn back to his opponent, he caught sight of a man in the crowd who seemed to be a stranger to the area; his skin was brown and tanned like old cedar, and his clothing, too, looked strange, like that of a mercenary from a foreign land. He was wearing baggy black breeches and a scratched cuirass over a brilliant red quilted gambeson. It took Lukas a moment to understand this was a sort of clothing he had seen once before.
The man looked like one of those Spanish mercenaries who had killed his father and abducted his sister!
He was looking straight at Lukas, and his narrow lips were murmuring something that Lukas couldn’t hear, but he couldn’t help thinking how one of these men had shot his father with a crossbow. The image of Lukas’s dead father suddenly rose up like a ghost in his mind, infusing it like a poison.
“Damn, what’s wrong with you?” Scherendingen cursed as he noticed Lukas’s hesitation. “Pull yourself together, concentrate, lad!”
Lukas quivered, shook himself, then turned back to the master, who had begun to come at him again with attacks, thrusts, and feints. They had practiced the sequence carefully, and at the last rehearsal, everything had gone well, but now Lukas could sense he’d lost his concentration. He hesitated, moved too slowly, and one of Scherendingen’s blows almost struck him on the head.
“Didn’t I tell you?” the farmer crowed cheerfully. “The kid is no match for the old warhorse.”
Scherendingen’s movements also became a little slower, and even though the battle was still raging back and forth as they had practiced it, everything seemed erratic, like poor acting.
“What’s the matter, lad?” Scherendingen panted between blows. “Don’t disappoint me! I know you have the stuff to become a great show fighter, so come on and fight like a man!”
Suddenly, Dietmar von Scherendingen seemed to grow taller. Lukas wiped the sweat from his eyes, blinked, and realized to his horror that it wasn’t the master, but something else. Behind Scherendingen, a ghostly apparition was rising like a bank of fog and slowly beginning to take shape. Lukas tried to scream, but the scream lodged in his throat.
Before him stood the wolf from his dream.
The thought flashed through his mind that this was impossible. Wake up, this can’t be happening!
But the wolf did not go away. It rose up behind Scherendingen and glared at the boy with its small, evil eyes. No one but Lukas seemed to notice it. He dropped his sword and dagger and looked up at the nameless horror.
“He’s giving up,” the people shouted. “The boy is giving up!”
Scherendingen shook his head sadly and turned to Lukas.
“I really thought that—”
At this moment, the black phantom pounced on the young fighter. Shouting, Lukas picked up his weapon again. He was no longer conscious of what he was doing; he was completely overcome by naked fear, but his fear bestowed an almost supernatural power on him. Like a Fury, he threw himself at the wolf that was now standing directly between him and Scherendingen. His blade whizzed through the shadowy figure as if through the air, but to the spectators it looked like Lukas had again taken up the fight against his master. The blows rained down on the old warhorse like a torrential downpour.
The old soldier seemed astonished, but then he resumed the battle. Lukas now had two opponents: the wolf and the master, but in his mind they appeared fused together as one. Lukas’s blows landed more precisely than ever before in his life. Scherendingen kept retreating until finally he stood with his back against a wooden barrier.
“The lad is fighting like the devil,” one of the spectators shouted. Other voices joined in: “Hurrah! Lukas, Lukas, Lukas!”
Fired up by the shouts from the crowd, Lukas swung his sword through the air, sliding from one position to another like a cat. Scherendingen parried the blows, but his strength appeared to be waning.
“Enough, lad,” he gasped. “That was more than I expected, much more.”
But the wolf’s evil eyes bored into Lukas, and he knew the wolf had recognized him.
He found me! Lukas thought. He has been seeking me, and now he has found me!
The wolf’s lips twisted into one final, malicious grin, and then the phantom suddenly vanished. Only a gray cloud remained, and soon that also vanished. Lukas swung his sword at it, but struck instead Scherendingen’s sword hand, sending his weapon flying away into the dirt.
After a moment of stunned silence, a huge cheer went up. People applauded, threw their hats in the air, and slapped each other on the shoulders.
“What a battle!” they shouted. “Three cheers for the young lad. He can take on the Swedes all by himself.”
Only Dietmar von Scherendingen seemed uncertain. He was bathed in sweat, staggering slightly, and still struggling to catch his breath.
“Good Lord,” he finally said. “That . . . isn’t what we agreed on. God knows what could have happened.” But then he grinned from ear to ear. “But what difference does it make? It was a great spectacle—especially the terrifying look you gave me! For a moment I thought you really wanted to run me through.” He laughed and led Lukas, still quivering, out of the ring and over to one of the actors’ wagons. “Damn! This lad knows all the tricks!”
As soon as Lukas entered the wagon, his three friends bombarded him with questions. They could still hear the cheering outside. Scherendingen had returned to the spectators to accept their ovation and collect some more coins.
“Now what was that all about?” Giovanni asked, shaking his head. “Were you really trying to kill the master and take his place?”
“No, no, I—” Lukas started to say, confused, but Jerome interrupted him at once.
“It was the best performance in a long time!” he said excitedly. “First this hesitation as you almost surrendered, and then this lightning attack, like a snake. Mon dieu! C’est sensationell!”
“There are only two possibilities,” Paulus grumbled. “Either the master will cut Lukas to pieces, or he’ll give him a medal. In any case, no one has ever fought with him like that.” He w
inked at Lukas. “At least no little squirt like you.”
“Just stop and listen to me, will you!” Lukas pleaded. “I didn’t plan it that way. There was a wolf, it attacked me, and . . . and . . .” He stopped, realizing how crazy it all sounded.
“A wolf?” Paulus asked, frowning. “What kind of wolf?”
Lukas hesitated, but he finally decided to tell his friends the truth; he couldn’t remain silent any longer.
“Sometimes I see and hear things,” he began quietly, “that nobody else can see and hear. It all began with the execution of my mother.”
He told his friends about the blue cloud and the voice of his mother he’d heard again on that cold winter night just before he discovered the actors’ camp. Then he told them about his nightmare and the wolf.
“This wolf was really there,” he concluded, “in the dream, and today in the battle, like . . . like a ghost! It was standing behind the master; then it attacked me.” He shook his head. “And among the spectators there was a strange fellow, perhaps a Spaniard. He was dressed just like those mercenaries who killed my father and abducted my mother, and he was mumbling something. Who knows, perhaps he was summoning this wolf.”
Giovanni looked at him skeptically and frowned. “A phantom wolf then, and a mumbling Spaniard. Hmm . . . Maybe the last few days were just too much for you . . . the loss of sleep, the constant practice—”
“You don’t believe me!” Lukas stared at his friends in despair. “You think I’m crazy.”
“I just think you’ve gone through a lot in the last half year,” Paulus said, trying to calm him. “Perhaps you should simply try to get a good night’s sleep.”
“But don’t you understand?” Lukas said. “This wolf was looking for me, and now it has found me, and it has put the Spaniard on my trail. I don’t know what this fellow wants from me, but . . .”
He fell silent as the door to the wagon was flung open and Dietmar von Scherendingen appeared in the entrance.
The master looked surprised and hesitated for a moment before asking, “What’s going on here? We took in more money today than ever, and you guys are moping around with faces like three days of rainy weather.” Then he grinned. “Is it because you think I’m still angry at the kid for almost beating me in battle? Well, don’t worry, it’s all forgiven.” He winked at Lukas. “But don’t rejoice quite yet. I’ll pay you back, kid, by tomorrow at the latest. I’ve decided we’re going to stay in Augsburg a little longer. So prepare yourself for a rematch, Lukas. Now be off! The people want to see their hero!” Laughing and jingling his purse of coins, he turned around again to the cheering public.
Lukas groaned and slumped down on a chest in exhaustion, closing his eyes and fearing the huge wolf could appear again, while the spectators outside continued shouting his name.
XI
All that week they gave daily shows, all so well attended that the citizens of Augsburg came hours early looking for the best places to watch. Everyone wanted to see Fearsome Lukas, this little devil who was nonetheless able to hold his own against four experienced swordsmen at the same time. Lukas didn’t fight now with the same determination as on that first day, but his fame spread. Parents brought their children along, giggling couples watched together, and as time went on, he mastered the tricks better than ever. The wolf and the Spaniard never returned, and so he was able to concentrate fully on the battle.
Often Lukas wondered if he had only imagined the strange events of the first show in Augsburg. Perhaps it really had been due to the lack of sleep. He no longer had bad dreams and was well rested and able to concentrate. During their morning practice sessions, Scherendingen was no longer so strict with him. Sometimes he even gave Lukas a fatherly pat on the head, and at such times, there was a sparkle in his eye.
An innkeeper and enthusiastic fan of theirs gave the actors a cheap room near Saint Ursula’s Convent, so the actors no longer needed to spend the night in their damp, stuffy wagons. Now they had a hot meal three times a day, and the inn’s beds were nearly free of fleas and lice. Seldom had they lived so well as here in Augsburg. From his earnings, Jerome bought himself a new hat with a wide brim and rooster feathers, and Paulus bought two heavy parrying daggers almost as long as his forearm from a local blacksmith. Giovanni spent many hours in the library of the neighboring monastery, where the nuns took a great liking to him and allowed him to browse through the books there at any time of day or night.
Lukas, on the other hand, didn’t care much for shopping or socializing and usually practiced the individual moves on the tree stump or with Scherendingen until he could perform them even with his eyes closed.
“You really should give yourself a break,” Paulus said to him as they were sitting before a pot of stew in the tavern at the end of the week. “If you keep up training like that, the Augsburg bishop will appoint you his personal bodyguard.” He licked off his spoon and with gusto helped himself to another portion.
“The only good job you could get with the bishop would be as his taster,” Tabea said with a laugh. Then she turned to Lukas and winked. “But you’re right, Paulus. The Augsburgers have fallen in love with our little kid just as much as we have.”
“You mean you have.” Sara giggled.
As usual, Lukas turned red and leaned way down over his bowl. He still hated it when they called him a kid, but somehow the word sounded different, almost pleasant, when Tabea said it.
“As nice as it is here, we’d better leave soon,” one of the Jannsen Brothers interrupted. “They say the Swedes have gotten as far as Friedberg, and that’s not even twenty miles from here! The last of the Bavarian duke’s foot soldiers withdrew from Augsburg yesterday, with rolling drums and muskets at the ready.” He leaned over and continued speaking softly. “The patricians no doubt plan to surrender without a fight. Just the same, I want to be far away when King Gustav Adolf’s swine come marching in.”
“Out in the country, things are no better,” Ivan grumbled into his beard. “There are mobs of hungry mercenaries wandering about out there. From the city walls you can see the villages burning.”
The others nodded in agreement, and soon an anxious conversation started about what to do now. The good mood had evaporated.
“I’ve asked around,” said Scherendingen, who until then had been quietly sitting in a corner, as he did so often, drinking his wine. At once the others fell silent. “In the east there is still a narrow corridor we can use to escape. If we break camp early enough tomorrow morning, we should be able to make our way to Landshut, which is still firmly under the Kaiser’s control, and there we’ll be safe.”
“What do you mean by ‘safe’!” Sara complained. “Our troops are not much better. I’ve heard dreadful stories of people being forced by the mercenaries to swallow liquid manure until they choke to death. Swedish brew is what the farmers call it. The imperial soldiers impale screaming infants on their lances, and—”
“Keep your horror stories to yourself, old witch,” Scherendingen shot back. “We’ll fight our way through to the imperial Bavarian troops tomorrow, and now not another word!” He belched loudly, staggered to his feet, and went to bed.
The others remained behind, silent except for Ivan, who just shook his head and grumbled, “The old man is getting worse and worse. Sooner or later, he’ll drink himself to death.”
“But before that, he’ll fight as drunk as the Lord against the devil,” Giovanni said with a laugh. “And now let’s be positive. You’ll see, everything will be fine. We’ll travel like princes with the Kaiser’s troops in the imperial baggage train.”
Lukas sipped on his warm diluted wine. He admired Giovanni greatly for his intelligence, but this time he was afraid his friend might be mistaken.
Very early the next morning, the actors headed out of the Augsburg city gate in their two wagons. On the eastern horizon, they could see a red glow, as if the sky were burning, and indeed, they soon came across abandoned villages and small towns. In their fear, p
eople had fled pell-mell, leaving behind only a few old people, who followed the actors with tired eyes.
Around noon they finally reached a region that had already been plundered. Many of the farmhouses had been burned down, and the mercenaries had thrown bodies of dead animals in the wells to poison the water. At a road crossing hung the corpses of two farmers. Lukas stared in horror at the bodies swaying gently in the wind.
“No doubt they wouldn’t tell the Swedes where they’d hidden their few possessions,” Paulus observed darkly.
“But we don’t know if it really was the Swedes, or our own men,” Scherendingen replied. “Actually, we should now be in imperial territory.” He shook his head, trying to think it through.
The master had the wagons stop for a short rest in another little town that had been burned down. There were dead bodies here as well and an overturned oxcart burning in the road.
“I don’t like this at all,” Scherendingen grumbled. “Let’s first look around to see where the enemy is. Otherwise, we could run right into a trap. That’s your order, lads. Unhitch the wagons and look around, and be back by sundown, is that clear? In the meantime, the rest of us will stay here.”
Lukas helped his three friends unhitch the horses from the shafts, then they quickly saddled up and headed north, where other villages could be seen burning in the distance.
They had been riding along silently for a good hour side by side when they saw a dark line on the horizon quickly approaching. Giovanni gave the sign to stop.
“Damn! That’s an army,” he whispered, “and a pretty big one, too. But whose army is it?”
“To find out, we’ll have to get closer, whether we like it or not.” Jerome pointed to the north, where another burned village with a church in the middle was visible. “If we go there and climb the steeple, perhaps we can learn more.”
Soon they came to the destroyed town, where bodies were also hanging from the trees and dead cattle lay in the scorched fields. Small fires were burning everywhere, as if the attack on the village had happened just recently. Lukas tried to put the images out of his mind and entered the vandalized church along with the others. All the windows had been smashed, the sacristy plundered, and on the altar was a steaming, stinking pile of human feces with flies buzzing around it. The clock tower, however, seemed intact, even if the wooden stairs were charred and crumbling.
Book of the Night Page 9