by Cory Barclay
Sybil’s head was slumped numbly against Dieter’s back, while jumbled thoughts raced through her mind. Of her brother Hugo. The brother she loved. The brother she’d vowed to return for, but never had.
The brother I grew up loving . . . is the son of . . . a murderer? A monster? Why did father never tell me? He’d say ‘to protect me’—but from what? I could have taken it. But could Hugo?
So many questions, so many confusing new facts and old memories mixed together. Her only refuge was to think how much she just wanted to hurry back and hold her own child in her arms. To never leave him again. Not for a day, an hour, a single minute.
Her precious Peter.
They made excellent time returning to Bedburg, reaching the town’s southern gate just as the morning sun slipped behind dark storm clouds and the wind shifted.
They headed straight for Claus’ inn.
As they moved through the town, an odd feeling overtook Sybil in the pit of her stomach. She lifted her head from Dieter’s back. It felt like she was being watched. An ominous darkness enveloped her.
Perhaps it was a mother’s instinct. Or just the weather turning brisk.
Something wasn’t right.
Nearing the inn, a gut-wrenching terror welled up inside her. She clutched her chest and gasped.
Men surrounded the inn. Evil, vile men. Men she recognized.
Gustav Koehler’s men.
In the middle of the pack, waltzing through the door of Claus’ inn, was Gustav Koehler himself.
When he saw Sybil, Dieter, and Rowaine, he smiled cruelly.
And then Sybil saw it.
In Gustav’s arms. Asleep.
Her child.
Her precious Peter.
PART III
Thrown to the Wolves
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
HUGO
Hugo’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he swallowed. The veins in his throat were taut, and his body shook.
Tomas stood in front of him, looking down the length of his sword, aimed at the boy’s throat. A bead of sweat dripped down Hugo’s forehead, landing on the tip of the blade.
Tomas clenched his jaw, the bones near his ears bulging. “I never thought you had the capacity for such treachery, Hugo Griswold.”
It was the first time he’d called Hugo by his full name, which at any other time would have elated the young man. Unfortunately, in his current predicament, it only frightened him to his core.
Trying to maintain his composure, Hugo locked eyes with Tomas. “I could say the same about you, Tomas Reiner, and anyone you associate with.”
“You came to us—to Ulrich, you fool. What did you expect from the scarred executioner, a life of happiness and rainbows?”
“I expected to learn how to be a man. I expected to learn a valuable trade. And I did, from both of you.”
“You just hoped you’d never have to use the things we taught you.”
Hugo glanced away. “That was my hope.”
Tomas bit his bottom lip. “What am I going to tell that boy’s mother—my sister? I may have never enjoyed Severin’s company, God knows he was a thorn in my side, but that didn’t give you the right . . .”
The image of Severin cascading down the cliffside replayed in Hugo’s mind. Yet despite what he’d done, despite Tomas’ piercing eyes debating his fate at that very moment, he felt no remorse. And that emptiness sickened him. He should feel something for the man who, for better or worse, he’d lived with, shared adventures with, and had known for years.
Have I really changed so much, in so little time? Ulrich, Tomas, Severin, Ava, Karstan—how have I let them turn me into this . . . savage? These don’t feel like my thoughts . . . they feel planted.
Still, he had not lost all of himself, yet. Because he still felt something—whatever shred of empathy still lingered inside him—for the others, the ones he knew least—Klemens, Gregor, even Tabea and Samuel—and their senseless slaughter.
“Severin’s better off where he is,” Hugo said flatly. “His is a case of ambition far outweighing ability.” Hugo knew he spoke rash and blunt, but didn’t care. Suddenly the idea of joining Severin at the bottom of that cliff didn’t sound so horrible.
Tomas’ eyes widened. He’d expected Hugo to grovel for his life. Instead, the young man remained resolute, unbending, strong. And Tomas couldn’t help but respect the boy for it.
Maybe that’s what saved Hugo’s life that day.
Or maybe it was Grayson, who strolled up to them and, putting his hands out in surrender, tried to defuse the situation in his own unique way.
“You could take his head from his neck and roll it down the bluff to join your nephew, Tomas—”
“I hear an alternative idea bubbling behind your words, Gray,” Tomas said, his sword still poised against the boy’s throat.
“But before you make any final decisions, remember that the inquisitors’ paperwork expects an inquisitor’s assistant to arrive in Trier, too. Arne and I won’t be joining you, so—”
Arne approached them. “He’s all you’ve got, is what Gray’s saying.”
“I could kill him and leave this forsaken hill and just return to Bedburg. There’s plenty of work there—the money in Trier isn’t important to me.”
Grayson snorted. “Well, we all know that’s hogwash, Tom. If it wasn’t important to you, would you have carried out the murders? I doubt it.”
Hugo saw Tomas’ eyes soften, ever so slightly.
“I can never trust him again,” Tomas said, still trying to justify jamming his sword through Hugo’s neck.
Grayson glared at Hugo. “If he can do what you claim he did to Severin, it goes without saying that he can do a hell of a lot worse to those folk in Trier. Perhaps he’ll fit right in. Maybe this is just what that place needs: a young savage willing to kill the innocent to set that place right.”
“The innocent?” Tomas said, glancing at Grayson.
Grayson shrugged. “Alls I know is that he’ll make the diocese a hefty sum of gold. And maybe you, too.” He motioned toward the cliff. “He’s clearly got no conscience. A rotten soul. Look at him.”
Hugo remained motionless, trying to minimize the chances of Tomas accidentally slicing him open with a sudden twitch.
Grayson continued. “The burnings in Trier—I hear there’re hundreds of ‘em. Biggest witch-hunt ever. You really think they’re all witches? Or a power grab from the old bishops and clergy?”
Arne chimed in. “I hear nobles and judges and priests are even being swept into the frenzy. No one’s safe.” He looked from Tomas to Grayson. “There’s a reason Ulrich sent us there—or whoever paid Ulrich. The money is ripe.”
Grayson nodded. “The other job me and Arne’re taking in Trier, we’re supposed to haul in a gaggle of hags and find reasons they need to die, so their wineries and fields can be confiscated. You fancy that’s all by chance? No, Tom, it’s hunting season in the diocese. Everyone is trying to make their coin, get their share of the kill.” He nudged his chin toward Hugo. “I think this boy’s got the grains to do what’s needed. He’s proven that.”
Tomas grunted. He tapped his forefinger on the guard of his sword, then finally let it drop point-first toward the ground.
Hugo let out a sigh.
“I’ve heard similar tales,” Tomas said, turning to Grayson. “Ulrich wasn’t happy about it when he told me. There was a time when judgment came by way of a traveling executioner—a horseman of death, like Ulrich. But he complained that now, this inquisition comes from priests riding carriages bought with the souls of the hapless. They ride over roads paved with blood.”
“Blood money,” Grayson said, nodding.
Tomas scowled. “They kill heretics to build roads and mansions from the wealth they take. They sell indulgences to buy their horses and gold crosses and fineries.”
“You’re saying you don’t want some of that blood-and-soul money?” Grayson asked with a glimmer of a smile. He put a hand on
Tomas’ shoulder.
Tomas stomped his feet. Then smirked. “Let’s go get us a share of the kill,” he said, walking away from Hugo who, somewhat surprisingly, was still very much alive.
They arrived in the countryside of Trier a few hours later. At first blush, the land looked green and fertile, reborn from the night’s spring showers. But a closer inspection revealed the multiple plumes of thick black smoke rising off in the distance from the surrounding villages of the diocese.
Not the burning of buildings, but of people . . .
There was a time when Trier was one of the most prosperous regions in the Holy Roman Empire. And the current archbishop, Prince-Elector Johann von Schönenberg, still held one of the most powerful seats in the Empire. But rather than use his power for good, he oversaw one of the most destructive massacres the region had ever known.
Hugo had done his learning while on the road to Trier. He knew what to expect, especially after the brutal deaths of his fellow travelers. The event on the mountainside validated what was to come and Hugo knew it. He could feel it. He could see it. The thick tendrils of smoke in the distance bearing witness to it.
As the setting sun fashioned the polluted air into a flaming orange sky, Tomas and his men followed the Moselle River into the valley. They passed a small village with a large wooden cross stuck in the ground near its entrance. A man was vigilantly guarding it, white gowns over his plate mail, every bit the Knight Templar.
Grayson called to the man. “What’s this town?”
“Naurath.”
Grayson’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, Arne my boy, it seems we’re at the right place! Tomas, I suppose this is where we part ways.”
Tomas surveyed the village of Naurath below them. Mostly small dwellings, hovels, and sheds. A tiny town, surely no more than a few hundred inhabitants. “This is where you go?”
Grayson grinned. “We follow the coin, my friend. But I have a feeling we’ll see you again.”
The two mercenaries embraced, then Tomas tousled Arne’s hair. Grayson simply gave a stiff nod to Hugo, but said nothing.
As the two walked away, Hugo felt a sense of dread. Grayson had saved his life—of that there was no doubt. And now he was gone, leaving Hugo with no protection . . . nor words of wisdom.
He was now at the sole mercy of Tomas.
Hopefully time will heal our wounds.
Though I have a feeling time won’t heal this wound until either me or Tomas is good and buried.
When Tomas and Hugo arrived in Trier, the sparkling stars brightened its rooftops, casting an inviting glow. The city was large, but not quite a metropolis. Situated between sandstone hills and the banks of the Moselle, it was in the heart of the region’s wine country.
Hugo dared not speak when they entered Trier’s northern gates. He waited for issue from Tomas. As they made their way through the streets, Hugo took in the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. Half-naked women clawed and dragged their hands across him as he walked by. A man flew out of a tavern, landing in the mud. A grimy beggar lifted his cup and begged for coins. Another beggar did the same. Then another.
So many penniless souls.
Trier was unlike anything he’d ever seen. He’d never been to a place so big. So many smells invaded his senses, mostly foul and stinking, but others he couldn’t really place. Yet despite the outward appearance of raging festivities around him, Hugo saw through the façade. Trier was hurting, its people in dire need of aid. The city was crumbling.
“Come, boy,” Tomas urged, watching Hugo fall behind, slowed by the constant grappling of harlots in the night. “Remember who you are,” he whispered angrily. “You are not a sightseer. You are Inquisitor Assistant Gregor.”
Hugo nodded.
“And who am I?”
“Inquisitor Samuel, my lord.” Hugo hadn’t meant to call Tomas ‘my lord,’ but it slipped out.
As they moved on, Hugo saw another thing he’d never forget: Three tall crosses had been erected in the square they passed. And behind those stood three more. And even more behind those.
But unlike when they’d passed Naurath, these crosses were not empty.
The burned shells and skeletal remains of victims and heretics were nailed to each, as if a warning to visitors entering the city. Hugo could smell the rank, rotting skin and flesh. Flies buzzed noisily about the carcasses.
Hugo gulped. “Where are we going?” he finally asked, realizing that Tomas seemed to know the lay of the land.
“To find the suffragan bishop, Peter Binsfeld. He started this witch-circus. Maybe then we’ll meet our commissioner. Keep up and don’t turn your head too much.” He nodded toward the crosses. “Lest you want to end up like those poor souls.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
GUSTAV
Keenly aware he now had their full attention, Gustav made a show of smiling at the sleeping boy in his arms. As Sybil, Dieter, and Rowaine looked on, he tickled the child awake by gently stroking his chin, then set him down on the ground. The toddler wobbled on uneasy feet, with Gustav’s soldiers, Adrian and Alfred, standing on both sides of him, while the rest of Gustav’s pirates formed a protective circle around them all. His other key aides, Kevan and Paul, remained inside the inn watching the old innkeeper.
From inside his guarded circle, Gustav eyed Sybil, Dieter, and Rowaine, one by one. He didn’t care much about the redheaded one, though he was aware of the immense hatred Adrian, standing to his left, held for the woman who had unceremoniously dispatched and mutilated his former captain.
But Gustav’s ire was squarely directed at Sybil and Dieter, his brother’s murderers. And now, after many grueling days of hard travel, his efforts had finally paid off. He’d found them!
Sweeter still, he now held all the cards—in the shape of the tiny toddler wandering around in front of him.
Gustav wasn’t a religious man, but he thanked the stars for his good fortune in coming upon the child by sheer happenstance. Old man Claus had refused to say where the trio had gone—even with a gun pointed at him. But Gustav knew it was only a matter of time before the boy’s parents returned for their precious little one.
And here they were.
Gustav caressed the wooden butt of his brother’s pistol, which he always kept close for such an occasion.
With the delicious laudanum coursing through his veins, plus a healthy dose of adrenaline, his eyes grew wild.
Noticing his crazed expression, Hedda crept up beside him. “Be reasonable,” she said in a low voice, eyeing the child as she spoke.
But Gustav pushed her away, sending her back inside the inn. He kept a hard stare on the two people he’d worked so hard to find, deciding then and there that one way or the other he would not leave without taking what he came for: Either they’d come peacefully or their blood would spill on the street.
Sudden shadows darkened his view. At first he assumed it was Adrian’s men closing around him, or possibly even his drugs intensifying his senses. But when he glanced over, he saw that four of the town’s guards had arrived to investigate the situation. Standing about ten paces back from Gustav’s circle of protectors, they stood several paces apart from each other to cover as wide an area as possible.
Apparently news traveled fast in these parts.
Gustav wasn’t too concerned. His crew vastly outnumbered these four Bedburg defenders.
But one of them in particular stood out to Gustav—the largest one, with a deep scar on his face. Two things about him drew Gustav’s attention: the grisly nature of the scar running down the man’s cheek, visible even from ten paces away, and the enormous arquebus rifle he held at his side. As Gustav looked away, refocusing on the toddler in front of him, the scarred man swung the huge weapon around, clutching it in both hands, though not yet aiming it. As Gustav glanced back up, the man spoke.
“Frau Aellin from the tavern told me some rowdy men were set at the inn, refusing to leave until a certain couple arrived,” he said with authority.
“To go with you is to go with death,” Dieter said.
Gustav yawned. “I have the paperwork that validates my arresting these two, if you’d like to see it, Herr . . .”
“Ulrich,” the guard replied. “There was a time when I ripped the fingernails off that man’s hands,” he said, nodding toward Dieter. “But they were exonerated for their crimes. Therefore your paperwork must be illegitimate.”
“Not true, Herr Ulrich. The papers are signed by Baron Ludwig von Bergheim—my father, and—”
“We’re not in Bergheim,” Ulrich said firmly. “Your father’s jurisdiction doesn’t extend to Bedburg. I’m going to ask you to hand over your weapons or else quit my city. There are ales and whores aplenty here, but if you start trouble, I’ll be forced to respond in kind.”
Although Ulrich was an imposing figure, Gustav still sneered at the man. Why does he speak so confidently when he knows he’s outnumbered?
“We’ve already had our taste of your whores,” Adrian said from Gustav’s side. “We found them lacking.”
“That’s a shame.” Ulrich tightened his grip on his arquebus, narrowing his eyes.
Dieter quietly moved Sybil behind him. They both fixated on their child, who began waddling their way. Gustav stepped in front of the child, blocking his route. Sybil gasped.
Rowaine had her hand hidden behind her, fingering her pistol.
From his periphery, Gustav felt the presence of two hooded figures creeping in close from the other direction. His eyes darted to them but he didn’t recognize either. Then he realized they were the beggars from the night before—the ones who’d been sitting against the inn’s wall—the ones he’d nearly tripped over.