Mary tuned back to the troll just in time. He had stepped from behind his horse, arm raised. She forced her unfeeling hands to respond and sighted on him. In her peripheral vision, she saw why his arm was raised. His knife was in his hand, he threw it. Hard. The knife flew unerringly at her midsection like a missile.
She flinch-fired. Crack. She twisted her torso, to get out of the way of the heavy blade. If she did not twist right now, the knife would have thudded into her belly like a lance, hilt-deep into her gut, where her fear was swirling in an adrenaline vortex. The shot went off into the trees.
She twisted, but not fast enough. The blade hit her, a glancing blow on her left side. She stumbled back and away. Her side felt icy cold. She gasped. No! Mary half stumbled, half folded over at the shock. She tried to reach for the wound, but her hands and the grip on the .32 prevented the instinctive reaction, sending an additional wave of pain through her wrists.
“I want her alive, damn you, Hans,” Hocholting screamed.
Mary gasped and struggled to stand upright. The troll was back behind his horse, patiently waiting for her to collapse. Which she just might do. Sucking in air through her teeth, she looked at him, and his piggy eyes. Smug. Laughing.
Hocholting had freed two of the three horses. He was sideways across the trail with his horse. The troll was still hiding behind his, preventing a shot. She was out of time, the element of surprise was lost.
Mary raised her gun and shot the troll’s horse in the rump. Crack.
It screamed a high-pitched cry of pain and terror and took off straight into Hocholting. The two horses slammed together, with Hocholting’s right leg between them. The horses were angrily jumbled, a frantic blending of hooves and biting and fury, with Hocholting caught in the middle. It was his turn to scream. The troll’s horse eventually continued down the trail, kicking and biting at the thing in its haunch, while Hocholting tumbled to the ground, writhing in pain. Pivoting, her gun found the troll. He was already moving, to her left, running for cover. Her vision was now nothing but a pinpoint, a spot in the center of his chest, center mass, and she willed her hands and the bullets to find the mark.
Crackcrack. The little .32 barked. He twitched as at least one round found its target. He stumbled and fell at the edge of the trail, halfway into the trees. Once on the ground he began to writhe in pain. Good enough for now.
Hocholting! Staggering to Hocholting, she found him on the ground, whimpering, knife gone. He was rummaging in his leather bag for her Smith and Wesson. “Don’t move.” She screamed. He continued to rifle through the bag. His right leg was twisted at an odd angle below the knee. She kicked his leg, hard, then leapt back. He screamed in pain but took his hands off the bag.
“The bag. Throw it over here.” She pointed to the ground in front of her with the gun and her bound and now nearly unfeeling hands. The recoil from the little gun had done them no good.
As Hocholting struggled to comply with her demand, she took a quick glance over her shoulder to the troll, to make sure he was still lying in the path. He was curled up into a ball and moaning, but it looked like he was trying to get up.
“Shit.”
She didn’t expect him to stay down for long. The .32 automatic wasn’t a big handgun. It was lightweight, easy to handle, and easy to conceal. But it wasn’t a high-powered round, not like a hunting rifle where one shot could drop a man, blowing a hole clear through the body. You had to be very lucky to shoot someone with a handgun as small as her .32 and expect them to go down and stay down, not without emptying a magazine into them. Surprise was her reaction when the troll had dropped. The guy was at least the size of Tom Simpson, but stouter, and way uglier.
Hocholting struggled with the bag, moaning while Mary kept the gun trained on him. “Hurry.” She noticed her left side was wet, where the knife hit. The cold feeling was rapidly changing to pain, like someone was pinching her hard with pliers across the entire bottom of her left rib cage. Reflexively, she moved her hands to her side, to try to put pressure on the wound, to touch it, but her bindings prevented the movement, and the effort intensified the pain. The retrieval of the gun had to be her priority, not her wound. She began to feel woozy. She had to get these guys secure, and then get her hands free before she passed out.
Hocholting finally tossed the bag over to her. It was a dark leather bag, finely made and tooled, with a sturdy wide strap. It landed at her feet. She looked over to the troll, who had stopped writhing. With her foot, she pushed the bag several feet up the path and away from Hocholting. He wasn’t going far with his leg.
The troll lay curled up in a ball, face down, knees under him, hands clenching his stomach. He moaned softly. With numb hands, and her side making her wince with every step, she approached the big man carefully. His breathing was labored, and wet sounding.
To the side of the path a gleam of metal caught her eye. It was the troll’s knife, lying in the dirt. She looked at the troll. At the knife. Her wrists and fingers, now so purple they were nearly black. Hocholting lay whimpering on the trail a few yards away, arms waving aimlessly. She went for the knife. It had a good eight-inch blade, and the image of that cutting into her midsection made her nauseous.
Kneeling on the ground, Mary winced in pain as the slice on her side spasmed with the effort. She set the .32 down in front of her and eagerly snatched the blade from the ground. The knife was big, and much heavier than she thought it would be, almost the size of a big Bowie knife the Leferti carried. She held the handle with her knees, blade up, and started to slice through the salty leather strap.
The blade sliced the leather strap like butter and her hands popped apart. God, that felt good. Her fingers were so numb, she didn’t realize she had sliced a layer of skin off the inside of her wrist until she held up her hands and started to flex her fingers. The color started to return to normal.
She looked up to see the troll lumbering towards her, a long wooden tree branch in his hands, raised to bash in her head. His piggy eyes were red with pain and fury, blood streamed from his mouth, and across his chest.
He was too close. There would be no escape. Mary had a fleeting thought that she was about to die. Reflexively she raised her left arm to ward off the incoming blow while reaching for the gun with her right hand.
The thick branch shattered her left wrist and forearm. Fortunately, the wood was slightly rotten, having laid on the forest floor for too long. It shattered too. There was enough force that it knocked her to her right and she found herself flat on her back. She screamed in pain and helpless fury. Rotten wood and splinters showered the ground and her hair. Her fingers closed on the little .32.
The troll stood over her, dripping blood from his chest, the broken tree branch in his hands. Her left arm was numb, but she knew it was broken. It crunched when she moved it slightly. He raised the branch above his head, poised to bring it down on her skull.
She raised her right hand, wavering.
Crackcrackcrack. The slide locked back, the little gun empty. Her ears rang, and the smell of the gunpowder assaulted her nose. The smoke cleared, and the troll still stood, branch poised to kill her.
They locked eyes. His still red with fury, hers wide with fear.
Mary knew she was dead.
He blinked, and his eyes rolled up into his head.
The branch fell from his hands. She jerked her head to the side to avoid it as it thudded to the ground by her left ear, pain wracking her side as she moved. He stumbled back, and fell on his ass, seated on the edge of the trail, then folded onto his left side. His face was turned away from her, she could see he was still breathing, but labored and shallow.
Mary laid her head back on the trail, flat on her back, exhausted. Her body decided it was suddenly bone tired. The arm throbbed, and she glanced at it. It was starting to swell. It didn’t hurt all that much, at least compared to her side. At least not right now. She looked at the empty gun and set it on the ground. She had more rounds in loops in her holster o
n her leg, cowboy style. She put it aside. It would take a lot more energy to load it than she had right now. She considered a nap would be good, but there was too much pain.
Her body wanted to stay right where it was. But her brain would not agree. Get up girl! You really need to get up. She rolled her head to the side to look at Hocholting. He’s right there, and he still has a sword. She looked towards the side of the trail. The troll is there, and he’s breathing. If he is breathing, he is dangerous. Sybilla might try to follow, or Franz. So much to do. You really need to stop the bleeding on your side. She felt with her right hand and it came back slick with blood. Ouch.
The brain won the argument, and she stood, only to almost fall back down. Finally, erect, she staggered over to the opposite side of the trail, and leaned on the log. She took inventory. Her left side was all wet. Her bodice had a slice across the left side at her rib cage. It oozed blood. Quite a lot of blood. Her skirts were wet with it. She felt woozy again and was suddenly nauseated. She leaned over the log and threw up, the involuntary muscles in her stomach causing the other injuries to hurt even more. She bashed her forearm as she vomited, causing more pain.
In the bushes, she could see the crumpled form of Fritz. She wiped her jaw with her sleeve with the memory of the blowback. Nothing transferred to her sleeve, she figured it was dried by now. She had been so close to him, she had smelled his breath as he fell. Beer and old meat.
She half leaned, half sat on the log. In her short life, she had been scared before, frightened nearly to death. Been hurt before. But she was young, indestructible. She would live forever. Matthias probably thought the same thing. And right now, she was sitting on a log in the middle of a Tyrolian forest, bleeding, with a new thought.
“I almost died this day,” she said it quietly, to nobody in particular. “Fuck.”
A couple of birds chirped a non-committal response.
“Still might.” She added.
She fought back tears. Death was supposed to happen to other people. God, she was stupid sometimes.
She wiped her tears with her good hand and went to get the Smith & Wesson out of the bag, still on the ground. She retrieved it, along with one of Hocholting’s shirts. A clean shirt, even. His prissy fashion sense was coming in handy. She tied the clean linen around her midsection to act like a bandage. It was a challenge to do one handed, but she managed. It felt better, but the wound still hurt with a pain that made her want to scream. The gun went into her shoulder holster, and the .32 she laid on the log, with the thought she would reload it. When she got the energy.
“Mmmmmmph.” The troll was coming around.
She picked up his knife and went to him.
Her feelings for him were dark. Very dark. Matthias was a kid, harmless, a pain in the butt, too young to be part of this crap. And the troll had killed him, when he could have just restrained him. Matthias had been no threat. This man, bleeding before her, was a stone-cold killer. He had tried to kill her, even when he wasn’t supposed to. She frowned at him.
The troll was lying on his side, his face in the pine straw. His neck was exposed, pulse pounding rapidly. Mary turned the big knife over in her hand, looking at the bulging veins his neck. A very sharp blade. Thinking. Came to a conclusion. Frowned. Pushed the knife into the straps for the shoulder holster.
Carefully kneeling to observe his wounds more closely, she saw two entry wounds on his chest and the one on his arm. His breathing slowed even more. Then abruptly stopped. There was a pause. Suddenly he twitched and she flopped back, startled, protecting her wrist, hand going to the revolver tucked under her shoulder. His twitch put him on his back.
He started breathing again, a sharp panicked intake of breath. His eyes opened. “Mama!” he cried. Then he exhaled, a long burbling soft exhalation, and breathed no more.
She looked at him for a moment, exploring her feelings for him once again. She frowned. “Hail Mary…” she prayed silently. It felt right. Better.
Struggling, she used a nearby tree to hoist herself up and made her way to Hocholting. He was lying on the opposite side of the trail, and had managed to drag himself so his torso was slightly elevated. “All right, you bastard. If I didn’t need you, I would just shoot you.” She needed him to talk, to the Count, to Stadelemier to Hofer, to anyone who would listen. She was going to prove what Sybilla had done. What Franz had done. She wanted justice for Matthias, for the others. And for that she needed the good Herr Hocholting in one piece. Mostly. “Can you ride? Get on a horse?”
No longer was the fidgety angular man his fashionable, well put together self. He looked like he was hurting, a lot more than Mary. She looked closer at his leg, crushed and damaged above his knee too, more injured than she thought when she first inspected him. “You're pretty messed up.”
He shook his head. “Damn horse stepped on me after he knocked me off. I don’t think I can ride.” He shifted on the ground.
Mary looked at her side, and her arm. Her observation had a detached feeling about it, and she recognized that was dangerous. She had no idea how much blood she had lost before she tied Hocholting’s shirt around her, or even if she had stopped it sufficiently. She had never been sliced with a knife before. And the initial shock of the broken arm was wearing off, moving into deep bone pain that would only grow more intense. She didn’t think she had been going into shock, she had been too busy to think about it. But now, it was a possibility. And out here, that could mean death. The trail they were on was not well traveled, only used by herdsmen. Not a lot of traffic where she could just flag a passing rider. Or stick out her thumb.
Hocholting’s horse was still here, but the troll’s horse, the one she shot in the butt was long gone, probably wouldn’t stop until it got back to Bavaria, or it went lame and the wolves got it. Shit. Wolves. I’m potential wolf snack in this condition, and Hocholting is even worse. But horses, right now she had in plenty. Getting on them and staying on them was another matter.
She could probably get on the horse and ride back to Sybilla and Franz. That would only take less than a half hour. But then what? All they would do is wait for her to pass out and then give her back to Hocholting. She had no idea how far it was to the main trail that led to the Achensee. There was usually traffic on that, and if they found someone going to Jenbach or on the way to Innsbruck they would be good. Someone traveling could be helpful, or they could be even more dangerous than what she faced right now. Every option held a risk.
Looking at the log she was sitting on, she figured if she got Hocholting up on that, he could fall across a saddle and swing his good leg over, and maybe they could get back down the mountain to where she could call get some help.
She saw movement on the trail. Coming from the meadow, from the direction of Sybilla and Franz. It was only one rider, she could see him through the dappled afternoon sunlight. He was too small to be Franz, and he was riding a horse. Franz’s horse was somewhere between here and the barn at the Schloss. The rider slowly came into focus.
“Fuchs! You got my note!”
The wizened old man eventually eased his swayback nag alongside Mary. Pushed back his floppy hat. He looked at Hocholting first, whose eyes had glazed over. Looked at his leg and winced. “That’s not good.”
Looked at Mary. At her arm. At her side. Bushy white eyebrows pressed together. “Not good either.”
Looked around at the milling horses, Looked at the body of the troll. Sniffed the air. The scent of up-time nitrocellulose gunpowder still lingered. One of his eyebrows went up. “Other ones?”
“Over there. Only one.” Mary jerked her head towards the bushes behind where she was sitting on the log.
“Fugger?”
“Still at the ski lodge up the mountain. Along with Matthias’ body.” She tilted her head towards the troll. “That one did it, killed Matthias.”
His eyes landed on the little .32, sitting on the log. And then to her shoulder holster. “Looks as if you were right about smelling the fuse to
day.”
Mary looked at him blankly.
“Old soldier saying. One way to tell you are about to be ambushed is to sniff the air. With a matchlock, there is a fuse that must be kept smoldering. It’s a distinct smell, saltpeter and rope. Hidden in the woods, the smell of the fuse will give the element of surprise away. I got here as soon as I could.” He smoothly dismounted his horse, and came to her, evaluating her wounds. He moved like a much younger man than she remembered.
Within a half hour he had dropped sulfa into her open wounds and rebandaged them. He had a first aid kit with him and had clearly received some up-time training. Using a segment from the branch the troll had used to break her arm, he splinted it. That hurt a lot. She had her bodice off and draped over her shoulders, and her arm in a sling to keep it still.
They straightened Hocholting’s leg and splinted it. He passed out about halfway through the process, but not before Mary taunted him.
“You know, Hocholting, I'm going to introduce you to someone when we get you back to the Schloss.”
“Who?”
“Someone who has a common acquaintance. Friend of a friend.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Mary. Just set my leg.” They gave him some leather to bite down one.
“I’m going to introduce you to Regina.”
With the leather in his mouth, he couldn’t respond, and only looked puzzled.
“The common acquaintance? Why, she knows a certain Herr Dunkel. I'm sure you will have a lot to talk about together, especially if we leave you two alone.” Fuchs pulled his leg straight, and he screamed.
Bodies were dragged to the path. As Mary watched him work, she was puzzled. “Fuchs?”
He straightened up after dropping the leg of Fritz into position. “Yes?”
“How old are you?”
He smiled slyly. “You are asking about my secret, Mary.”
“Your secret?”
“I've always looked much older than I am. It’s my sort of my disguise. People have always thought me very old. I’m not yet forty-five. Nobody expects an old man to be the spy.” He smiled. “One of the reasons I got into this business.” He shrugged indifferently. “Also I was owing a lot of money to some people.” He dusted off his hands on his pants. “I used to gamble quite a lot.”
Up-Time Pride and Down-Time Prejudice Page 38