Book of the Night

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “The only one who can help now is Wallenstein,” Paulus declared as they sat freezing around a small campfire in the evening. “The word is going around that he is assembling his troops in Bohemia near Eger and intends to combine forces with the Bavarian duke in order to rout the Swedes. If that’s correct, we have a long trip ahead of us.”

  “The faster we get this horrible place behind us, the better it will be,” mumbled Jerome.

  As if to underline his words, a pack of hungry wolves not far away began to howl as night descended like a mask over the land.

  At least the black wolf in Lukas’s dreams did not return. Sometimes when he awoke early in the morning, bathed in sweat, the amulet that Red Sara had given him felt warm, almost hot. Lukas wondered if it really offered him protection from the wolf. It probably was just a piece of worthless metal, but he always wore it around his neck, especially as it reminded him of Sara and the good times with the actors.

  They assumed that Wallenstein’s army was quartered in the east, and the closer they got, the more Lukas forgot his earlier life. Sometimes he struggled desperately to remember the faces of his mother and father and had to admit to himself that they were fading away. His memory of Elsa was also vanishing like snow in the sun, and soon even Tabea would be nothing but a shadow.

  One morning, when Lukas looked into a pool of water, the image looking back at him was an older, unfamiliar face—not that of a skinny thirteen-year-old kid, but a warrior, embittered, sinewy, and muscular, with piercing eyes.

  I am no longer a child, Lukas thought.

  He used to yearn for the time he would be grown up, but now, suddenly, it no longer seemed so appealing.

  After many weeks of marching, they finally encountered more people. The villages were inhabited again, barley was growing knee-high in the fields, and summer had arrived in the country. Traveling journeymen told them of a mighty army of almost a hundred thousand troops gathering near Eger in Bohemia.

  “Wallenstein’s army,” Paulus said, nodding approvingly. “There is no other that large.” He broke out in a broad grin as he hastened his steps. “So now, finally, we’re entering the lion’s den.”

  Two days later, after passing over a few more hills, the friends came out of the forest and saw on the horizon a black, pulsing spot that looked like a huge, festering sore on the countryside. As they moved closer, details became visible to Lukas—first, colorful tents and the smoke of hundreds of campfires, then not long afterward, the carts and covered wagons rolled by them, full of weapons, baskets, and clattering pots and pans. Sounds came at them from every direction—drums, fiddles, fifes, occasional cannon shots, shouts, and laughter—and the air reeked of beer, liquor, gunpowder, feces, and the smells of thousands of men. Before they knew it, the four friends found themselves in the middle of the largest army encampment they’d ever seen.

  “Mon dieu,” said Jerome, squinting. “This army seems to go on forever! I wonder if the great Wallenstein is sitting somewhere nearby at one of the many fires, spooning his soup.”

  Giovanni laughed. “Certainly not. It will be a long time before we get to see the noble gentleman. It’s said he travels like a prince, and his menservants even carry around a silver washtub for him. But perhaps we’ll soon meet the Black Musketeers.”

  Lukas felt a strange excitement rising within him on hearing Giovanni’s words. They had traveled so far, and now they would finally meet the heroes of his childhood, the legendary regiment in which his father once fought.

  “But how are we going to find the Musketeers in this turmoil?” Paulus asked. “Should we just approach the next person to come along and politely ask?”

  “Why not? You’ve got to be a bit pushy to get anywhere.” Jerome grinned, and to the great astonishment of his friends, he turned to a group of scantily clothed women just passing by. There was a brief conversation, the girls giggled, wiggled their hips, and glanced seductively at Jerome.

  “Do you have any idea who they were?” Giovanni demanded when Jerome rejoined the group. “They were—”

  “Prostitutes, I know,” Jerome interrupted as he bit into a fragrant sausage that one of the women had handed him. “Wherever there are mercenaries, love is for sale. The prostitutes travel with the army, and they usually know their way around better than anyone else in the camp. It was also like that in the actors’ camp where my parents lived. The girls told me where to find the Black Musketeers,” he said, “but they warned me, our heroes live in the worst part of the camp, with only murderers, cutthroats, and a lot of rats.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t walked three hundred miles to give up so easily,” Paulus snapped back. Then he marched right off in the direction Jerome had shown them.

  “Hey, wait!” Giovanni called after him. “We’ll come along with you, of course!”

  Together, the friends started out on a march that would take them more than an hour through the noisy, bustling army camp. By now, evening had descended. As Lukas hurried past the many campfires where soldiers had gathered to sing, play dice, and drink, he could hear a large number of different dialects and languages. In Wallenstein’s army, Bavarians, Swabians, and Bohemians fought side by side, but there were also Croatians, Spaniards, Swiss, and even Frenchmen among them, all wearing the typical garb of the lansquenets, or mercenaries—slit trousers, colorful ribbons on their doublets, and beards that were unruly and untrimmed. More and more wagons had arrived, and the camp followers had settled down in front of them—the women chatting, cooking, and doing laundry while the children played with tops and homemade puppets.

  “The mercenaries brought their whole family with them,” Lukas remarked.

  Jerome nodded. “That’s the custom. The men do the killing, and the women care for their injuries. They hoard their plunder and sell it to peddlers. Their camp is like a big city.” He winked at Lukas. “Life goes on, even in war.”

  After a while, the scene changed; Lukas thought the wagons looked dirtier, and the songs sung around the campfires sounded louder and more obscene. Drunks came careening toward them, and brawls or knife fights had broken out here and there. A number of times, Lukas could sense lustful glances that felt like little pinpricks behind his back.

  “Oh-ho there! You four little doves,” an old lansquenet called out as he hobbled toward them on two crutches. All that remained of his right leg was a rotted wooden stump. He grinned, showing a row of black stumps in place of teeth. “It looks like you’re lost. For a kreutzer, I’ll bring you little turtledoves unscathed to the general’s tent.”

  “For two kreutzers, keep your mouth shut and take us to the Black Musketeers,” Paulus retorted.

  “Oh-ho! You need directions to the Musketeers?” The old man tipped his head to one side. “Such smart young lads. Why do you want to go and see them? I can cut your throat for less.”

  “Just do what we tell you,” Giovanni replied, placing two rusty coins in the man’s hand.

  “Whatever you say—it’s your life.” The old man shrugged, then waved for the boys to follow him.

  In the meantime, it had gotten dark, and shadowy figures, giggling and groaning, scurried past them; somewhere nearby, there was a shout that was suddenly muted, as if someone’s throat had been slashed. The wagons here stood as close together as buildings in a city. In the muddy, feces-smeared lanes between them, other dark figures lurked, seemingly just waiting for Lukas to turn his back on them. Instinctively he placed his hand on his sword.

  Abruptly the old man stopped and pointed his cane at several wagons standing in a circular formation off to one side. Behind them, a large bonfire was burning.

  “Here you are, the Musketeers,” he said. “But don’t say I haven’t warned you.” He hobbled away, leaving the boys to themselves.

  Paulus nodded with determination. “Well then, let’s go and see if these notorious soldiers can use a few more fighters.”

  Leaving the wagons behind them, they strode toward the huge fire. Not
until then did Lukas realize there were a number of individual campfires, each with a scruffy bunch of men sitting around them. Most of them were dressed completely in black and were wearing hats with feathers in them and bucket-top boots. A few were dancing to the beat of a bass drum while others were cheering and clapping. As the friends approached, the drumbeat stopped and the dancers looked at the uninvited guests with surprise and amusement.

  “Well, who do we have here?” an especially wild-looking fellow with a shaggy beard and an eye patch demanded. “Hey, men, sharpen the butcher’s knife. There’s some tender young lamb chops here.”

  Lukas bit his lips, but strangely, he felt no fear. These were the men with whom his father and Dietmar von Scherendingen had fought. They might be coarse, but they were heroes.

  Or maybe not? Lukas thought. They don’t look like heroes at all . . .

  And only then did he start to tremble a bit. To hide his fear, he turned to one of the men.

  “Is this not the camp of the men called the Black Musketeers?” he asked in a firm voice.

  “We sure as hell are,” replied one of the mercenaries. The large man dressed in black turned to those standing around him with a grin. “And we eat pretty boys like you for breakfast. Right, men?”

  “I’ve heard you’re the best in Wallenstein’s army,” Lukas continued. “But perhaps I’m mistaken. All I see here is a bunch of loud, drunk fellows who are nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Hear, hear! The kid’s getting fresh,” hissed the man with the eye patch. He pulled out his sword and advanced threateningly toward Lukas. “Let’s see how fresh he is when I slit him open like a little baby deer.”

  “Behave yourself, Wanja!” a deep voice rumbled somewhere in the crowd. “The boy is right. We’re soldiers, not child beaters. So get ahold of yourself before I have to teach you some manners.”

  The mercenary with the eye patch flinched and finally put his sword back in its sheath. “All right, Zoltan,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Another large man at the other end of the circle now rose to his feet. He, too, was dressed completely in black, except for a bright feather on his hat. He was over six feet tall and had broad shoulders and a full, bushy beard and bucket-top boots that reached over his knees. In contrast to his friends, he wore a doublet of precious velvet so dark it seemed it had soaked up every ray of light in the world.

  If the devil ever walks among us, this is certainly the way he looks, Lukas thought.

  Suddenly the man grinned, showing two rows of white teeth, and gave Lukas a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  “I like it when someone shows courage,” he growled. “And by God, all four of you show it, just marching in here on us Musketeers. My guards could have skewered you even before you could count to three.”

  “Then your guards sleep soundly,” Giovanni noted dryly, “or have been enjoying some especially strong brandy. We just casually walked in.”

  The giant, whom the other mercenary had called Zoltan, was apparently their leader. “By God, you’re probably right.” He laughed. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll whip their asses for that. But now I’d like to know who you four boys are.”

  “We are young men with no place to call home, but with our hearts in the right place and our hands on our swords,” replied Giovanni in a proud tone. He bowed slightly. “We know how to use our swords and want to join your group, with your approval.”

  There was a long silence. Then suddenly, hearty laughter broke out among the men that only stopped when Zoltan raised his hand.

  “Are you kidding?” he snapped at the boys. “Do you young pups even know who we are?”

  “You are the best,” Lukas replied softly, “the Black Musketeers, and for this reason, we want to join you, and no other regiment.”

  Zoltan shook his head. “You’ve got a lot of spirit, I’ll grant you that, or perhaps it’s just stupidity.” He looked with contempt at the weapons the four friends were carrying. “You probably think that just because you’re carrying a sword, you’re all grown-up.”

  “We can fight!” Jerome answered angrily, taking out his rapier. “Would you like me to prove it, monsieur?”

  Zoltan laughed and stepped back a pace. “Help! I’m being attacked by a little Frenchman!” he cried in an anxious falsetto. But then he turned serious. “Listen to me, I’m the commander of this regiment, and I’m telling you again we can’t use you. We already have enough porters, so get the hell out before—”

  In one quick movement Lukas drew his Pappenheim sword and slashed at the man standing beside Zoltan. There was a rasping sound, a brief gasp, then a large X appeared on the man’s doublet.

  Lukas had acted rashly, driven by anger and disappointment. Here he stood among the very men his father had fought with, and now the heroes of his childhood revealed themselves as drunken, uncouth characters—no better than robbers and vagabonds. To be ridiculed by them was more than he could take.

  “You miserable worm!” the mercenary in the torn doublet shouted, striding toward Lukas. “Just for that—”

  But Zoltan held him back. “Wait,” he growled. “That was just a lucky blow, nothing more. Now, it’s time for you to learn your lesson, all four of you. Karl, Kaspar, Max, Gottfried!” he called out into the darkness. Now four pimply hulks came shuffling over from a neighboring campfire. They were around sixteen years old, all with a dark fuzz around their lips and a rolling, confident gait that promised nothing good. They grinned broadly when they saw the four friends.

  “These are our menservants,” Zoltan explained. “Steeled in battle, they know all the tricks. They haven’t been pampered like you. Kaspar!” He turned to the tallest of the four young men, who was already cracking his knuckles. “Beat these guys up. No sharp weapons, just fists and sticks. I don’t want to see any blood, at least not too much. Show these little puppies that the Musketeers are not to be trifled with.”

  In a few moments, the Black Musketeers had formed a ring around the four boys. The friends had to give up their weapons in exchange for roughly cut willow sticks about six feet long. On the opposite side of the arena stood the four menservants, who were already swinging their own sticks menacingly through the air. Laughter and an occasional hurrah could be heard from the other side of the ring.

  “Well, you got us in a fine mess!” Giovanni whispered to Lukas. “We can count ourselves lucky they didn’t run us through right away.”

  “Oh, don’t make such a fuss,” Paulus argued as he tried out his pole, which was several inches thick. “Lukas defended our honor. We should thank him for that. Besides, we haven’t been in a good brawl for a long time.”

  “Do you have any idea what my waistcoat cost?” Jerome mumbled. “To say nothing of my new fustian shirt. Once this is all over, I’ll no doubt have to buy myself a new wardrobe.” He grinned impishly. “But who cares? I’ve never avoided a good fight, and these fellows really deserve one!”

  “Very well.” Giovanni sighed. “Then let’s get it over with.” He was carefully sizing up their opponents, and Lukas saw that Giovanni, as usual, already had a plan in mind. He pointed at the heaviest of the four, a sturdy bull-necked fellow called Gottfried. “Paulus, you get the fat guy, I’ll take the redhead who’s looking over at me so eagerly, and Jerome and Lukas can take the other two. The first one finished will come to help the rest.”

  As they slowly approached their opponents, Lukas cursed himself again for having irritated Zoltan so much. The four menservants looked far more dangerous than the usual farm boys he’d always beaten in the past in stick fights. But then Lukas concentrated on what his father and Dietmar had taught him, remembering the words of the old warrior in one of their many practice bouts.

  If you hold the stick properly, it can be a sword, a rapier, and a shield, all at the same time, Lukas—a dangerous weapon. Don’t underestimate it . . .

  Everything happened very fast. Kaspar charged Lukas, shouting and swinging his stick. From the corner o
f one eye, Lukas saw his friends also face off against their opponents; then came the attack, followed by loud bawling and shouting from outside the arena.

  Kaspar lunged, and Lukas stepped aside, then used his willow stick just as his father had taught him years ago. He grabbed it in the middle so that he could attack or defend with either end. First Lukas parried Kaspar’s blow from above. His opponent was almost two heads taller than he was, and the blow fell heavily, aimed at Lukas’s hands. Lukas delivered a blow from the side. Kaspar shouted with pain when Lukas struck his upper arm, but it only made him angrier, and he attacked with even greater fury. Lukas dodged again, and now used the stick as a stabbing weapon like a rapier. For a brief moment, Kaspar was unprotected, and when Lukas struck him right in the ribs, he staggered and fell backward. Lukas stood over him, gasping, while Kaspar lay on the ground, whimpering.

  “I . . . can’t breathe,” Kaspar panted. “Please help me get up.”

  Lukas was holding out his hand to help when he was struck straight in the face by a handful of dirt. Kaspar had secretly scooped up some dirt and stones from the ground and tossed them at Lukas! With a sneer, Kaspar scrambled back up onto his feet and rained down a number of painful blows on Lukas. Again, Lukas thought of what his father had told him on his thirteenth birthday.

  In a battle, nothing is ever fair . . . It’s only about who wins.

  Evidently, there were a few things he still had to learn.

  Lukas stumbled backward, half blinded, while the blows kept raining down on him. He had already reached the edge of the arena, where the jeering mercenaries awaited him. Blood and dirt were running down his face, and his left arm hurt horribly from Kaspar’s blows.

  Lukas remembered one of the tricks his father had shown him many years ago in the forest. He quickly fell to the ground, avoiding the blows from above, then swung his stick around in a wide arc. It was a bold move. If Kaspar could ward off this attack, he’d be able to beat his defenseless opponent black-and-blue as he lay on the ground. But Lukas’s blow caught the tall, slender boy right in the back of his knee, and with a surprised shout, Kaspar fell to one side. Lukas hit him on his hands, and Kaspar’s stick clattered to the ground. Again, Lukas’s opponent looked at him with wide, helpless eyes, but this time, Lukas wasn’t going to fall for the trick. He raised his stick and—