by J. K. Swift
Seeing the steel go into the man’s mouth brought images into Seraina’s mind she had hoped to forget. She watched, frozen in place, like the trees were pressing her to the ground. Thomas bent over and tore his dagger out of the screaming soldier’s foot, and then the woods went quiet when Thomas stood and slashed the man’s throat.
Blood splashed across the third soldier’s clean-shaven face, making him close his eyes. He was young. Much younger than the other two. He stumbled back, and then tripped over nothing but fear. He fell to his back, but quickly flipped over and began to scramble away on his hands and knees.
Seraina remembered her vision of Thomas in a tunic dripping with red, and as she watched him walk behind the young man trying to crawl to safety, she found the strength to push herself up off the ground.
“Thomas, no!”
She shrugged off the trees’ attempts to hold her back, and threw herself at Thomas as he wrapped one hand in the man’s hair and pulled his head back, stretching the softness of his throat toward the sun.
“Thomas…” She folded herself around Thomas’s dagger arm and called out his name again, but softer this time.
He looked at her. His eyes were cold and distant at first, but they began to soften the harder Seraina squeezed his arm.
“You cannot kill him,” she said.
His eyes narrowed and blinked, like she had told him something truly ridiculous.
“I must,” he said. “There is a checkpoint fifteen minutes from here. He will bring a dozen men before we are even half loaded.”
Seraina looked at the young soldier. Thomas still held him with one strong hand twisted in his hair. The boy was less than twenty, and the way his chest heaved with deep, frenzied breaths, reminded Seraina of a wounded deer who knew the hunter would be along soon enough.
“There is rope on the boat. We could tie him,” Seraina said.
Thomas scowled. “We may need that rope. And even if we did not, we owe his kind no mercy. Not after what they did. And what they stand to do.”
Seraina stepped forward. “There is another way.”
“You do not know his kind like I do,” Thomas said, shaking his head.
She let go of Thomas’s arm, slowly. “Trust me,” she said.
He stared at her for a long time but, eventually, he relinquished his grip on the boy’s hair and stepped back.
A boulder at the soldier’s back was the only thing that stopped him from scrambling away. He pressed himself against the stone and looked from face to face, then pleaded in a rattled voice. “I swear I will not utter a word of what I saw. If you let me go, I swear it.”
Seraina saw the dagger in Thomas’s hand twitch, so she stepped between the two men before it was too late. She crouched in front of the soldier at eye level.
“Do I have your word you will stay exactly where you are? To not move until someone comes looking for you?”
“I swear. On the Virgin Mother, I swear it.”
“He lies,” Thomas said, moving forward.
Seraina stopped him with a glare. “Trust me,” she said.
She reached down and gripped the boy’s lower leg with both her hands. He tried to pull it away, but she tightened her hold.
“You too must trust me,” she said. “If you wish to live.”
The boy looked at Thomas, hovering close behind Seraina, and at the naked blade he held, and went very still. He nodded.
Seraina probed above his ankle with her fingers. She slid one hand along the larger bone of his lower leg; the mother bone. Beside it was the child bone, which was slender, and much smaller. Together they nurtured one another and were capable of supporting a great deal of weight.
With a deft twist of her hand, Seraina stretched the bottom of the mother bone away from its base. The young soldier yelped and pulled his foot away.
“What are you doing to me, witch?”
Saving your life. And ours.
Seraina stood. “You are fine. But do not try to stand for at least twelve hours. The mother bone will need time to re-align herself.”
He eyed her while he flexed his toes and rolled his ankle. Seraina knew he felt no pain. He had only been surprised by the odd sensation of Seraina shifting his mother bone.
She turned to Thomas. “We can go now.”
He stared at her and made no move to sheath his knife.
“Trust me, Thomas.”
“You keep saying that,” he said.
“And I will continue saying it until I see by your eyes that you do.” Seraina pointed to the boat. “Prepare for cast-off, ferryman.”
Thomas shook his head, but he returned his blade to his belt.
“You are the ferryman?” the boy said. His eyes went wide. “The outlaw that attacked the Duke and shot his man?”
Thomas gave no response, but kept one eye on the soldier while he untied the boat’s bow line and pulled it closer to the shore.
Seraina picked up a water skin and placed it next to the boy. “Remember. Do not attempt to stand until this time tomorrow.”
They pushed out into the lake and Thomas busied himself with setting the sail. Soon, the trees on the shore obscured their view of the soldiers’ camp, but they were still near enough to hear the boy’s pain-choked scream.
Fool, fool, fool. I warned him.
Thomas jerked his head up at the sound.
“What happened?” he asked.
Seraina shook her head sadly. The foolish boy had tried to stand. But with his mother bone pulled out of line, only the child was left to support the boy’s entire body. It would have snapped in half with even a fraction of that weight.
“I told him to trust me,” she said.
Chapter 14
Thomas and Noll sat at a table near the inn’s entrance. They leaned their backs against the wall, with untouched mugs of mead before them, and waited for Pomponio.
“When he comes, I will do the talking,” Noll said.
Thomas nodded. He would not have it any other way. He had no desire to exchange words with the likes of Pomponio. Thomas looked around the tap room. It was more crowded than he would have liked. The evening rush had just begun, and three women and a man ferried drinks and trays of simple food between the kitchen and tables.
Noll’s knee bounced non-stop and every time the door opened he looked up. Thomas rested his hands around his clay mug and stared at it. Inside was a plum mead, and it had a reddish tint that reminded him of Seraina’s hair at dusk. Mind you, since their return from retrieving the swords, almost everything Thomas looked at reminded him of Seraina. He looked at the mead again, and this time was tormented with the memory of how her naked body had glowed under the soft light of their campfire.
He was about to take a sip when the door opened. Noll’s knee stopped bouncing. A second later the shadow of Pomponio’s ridiculous hat fell over Thomas’s mug. As the shadow grew, Thomas’s annoyance grew into an irrational anger, and he was surprised to find himself gripping the mug tight enough to turn his fingertips white.
“Master Melchthal,” Pomponio said in a booming voice. His Venetian accent stood out, and several sets of eyes from neighboring tables looked their way. He stood for a moment, allowing curious onlookers to get their fill, and then sat down across from Noll. He was accompanied by all four of his fellow Venetians, and once Pomponio had settled himself, they also took up spots across from Thomas and Noll.
Thomas looked up to find Salvatore’s broad shoulders at eye level. The man plunked his elbows on the table and began cleaning his fingernails with a long dagger, studiously oblivious to all around him.
Pomponio held up a hand to get a server’s attention, but Noll stopped him before he could shout his order.
“Any drink will be coming from your own purse tonight,” Noll said.
Pomponio lowered his arm slowly. He turned to Noll. “That was not our agreement,” he said.
“That agreement is no longer in effect,” Noll said. “In fact, consider it terminated.
Your services are no longer required. You and your men have until tomorrow morning to gather your belongings and leave Altdorf.”
The Venetians did not look the least bit surprised at Noll’s words. Pomponio smiled and shook his head sadly.
“Master Melchthal,” he said. “Your men are just now beginning to learn the fundamentals of the sword. If we leave, all their training will have been for nothing. Next summer, when the Austrians come, they will make very short work of your… army.”
Noll stared at him. “They will be ready,” he said.
Pomponio leaned back and put his hands behind his neck. “So you say. But tell me, who will train them? You?” The disdain in his voice matched the contempt in his smile, and Thomas found himself crushing his mug once again. But if the Venetian’s attitude bothered Noll, he did not show it.
“No. He will,” he said, nodding toward Thomas.
Both Pomponio and Salvatore looked at Thomas like he had just snatched the last piece of meat from a communal trencher. Salvatore stopped fussing with his dagger, and with a slow, deliberate motion he placed it on the table in front of him, between himself and Thomas.
“Are you sure that is wise?” Pomponio said to Noll while staring at Thomas’s face. “This man is obviously a soldier. Perhaps even a decent one. Although, not good enough to avoid at least one man’s steel, no?”
All the Venetians got a chuckle out of that. While they laughed Thomas lifted his mug to his lips and took a long drink. The mead no longer had the dark auburn hue of Seraina’s hair. The liquid appeared much redder now.
Pomponio dismissed Thomas with his eyes and turned back to Noll. “But a common soldier is no replacement for a sword master from the most famous school in Venezia. You do your men a disservice if you choose him over us, Master Melchthal. I fear you will regret it.”
Noll cast a sidelong glance at Thomas. “You may be right. But all the same, I want you gone by morning.”
Pomponio let out an exaggerated breath. “Very well. You negotiate strong, my friend. Tell me what you are paying this mercenary and we will work for merely double his fee, though we are ten times the talent. A better bargain—”
“Thomas! By God I never figured to find you in the first tavern I stuck my head in, but here you are!”
A small, wiry man, dressed smartly in a blue and red vest, walked toward the table. The sword swinging at his side seemed to be too long for him, but somehow it never dragged on the ground or impeded his movement. His hair was pulled back neatly from his face and glistened with oil. Hoop earrings dangled from each ear and his clean-shaven face beamed as he shouted in Thomas’s direction.
Thomas blinked.
Anton? Where had he come from?
Thomas had been so preoccupied with the Venetians he had failed to see Anton come in the front door.
“Thought for sure I would have to spend the better part of a day tracking you down,” Anton said. He gave a quick nod to Noll and the Venetians and then stepped over the bench and squeezed himself in between Pomponio and Salvatore. A normal-sized man could never have accomplished the feat, but Anton was much smaller than average.
“Planned on coming in here for a quick drink, or three, and see if anyone knew you. But by the Grace of Mary, who is the first person I set eyes on?” He looked around the table and grinned, then slapped his hands down flat. “Well, I have accomplished more today than I thought to, so let us get some drinks. You lot look like you could use one as well.”
“Hello Anton,” Thomas said, knowing full well he would just keep on rambling if Thomas did not say something. He fought back a smile at how comical his friend looked squeezed between the two scowling Venetians.
Pomponio’s scowl turned into a laugh, albeit one with very little true humor behind it. “Is this another of our replacements? One of the wandering folk is it?”
Anton smiled at first, but then Salvatore said, “She smells good enough to eat.”
“What is that scent?” Pomponio asked. “Something from your sister’s caravan?”
“Orange blossoms,” Anton said quietly. He no longer smiled and Thomas could see his eyes beginning to hood over.
“Of course it is,” Pomponio said. He turned to Noll. “Really, Master Melch—”
Anton drew back his arm and elbowed Pomponio in the side of the head. He jumped up off the bench and stood calmly by with one hand resting on the handle of the sword at his belt.
“Not sure if you was insulting me on purpose, or not, but thought that would be the fastest way to find out,” Anton said.
Everyone at the table froze. Pomponio, with his eyes clenched tight, gave his head a few shakes and rubbed his temple. Then, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. “This gnat has a sting, no?”
Salvatore and the other Venetians relaxed as Pomponio took up a position across from Anton. Salvatore licked his lips. He pointed at Thomas.
“No one moves,” he said.
He inched his hand close to his dagger laying on the table, and turned sideways on his bench so he could see Pomponio, as well as keep one eye on Thomas and Noll.
Pomponio faced Anton and slid his narrow-bladed sword out of its scabbard. There was a shout from a nearby table and people fell over themselves to give the two men some room.
“Before I teach you today’s lesson, I would have your name,” Pomponio said.
“Aye, you would,” Anton said. “If I was of a mind to give it to you.”
Pomponio grinned. “Well, my rude gypsy friend, let me introduce myself. I am Giovanni—”
Gissler was the fastest man with a blade Thomas had ever seen. But no one was quicker than Anton when it came to moving unarmed. One moment he was standing relaxed with his hand resting on his sword handle, and the next he seemed to materialize beside Pomponio. Perhaps, because Anton had never drawn his weapon, Pomponio’s mind had failed to recognize him as a threat. Or, maybe Anton was simply too quick. Whatever the reason, Pomponio had a puzzled look on his face when Anton seized his wrist, forced the point of his sword against the wooden floor, and then stomped on it. The thin blade snapped like second-year kindling. Anton then twisted Pomponio’s wrist back against itself and there was another snap, followed by a scream as Pomponio dropped to his knees.
“Do not much care what your name is,” Anton said, and then brought his knee up into Pomponio’s face.
Strange, Thomas thought, how a man’s screams never reveal even a hint of his accent. Pain sounded the same in any language.
Salvatore’s hand snaked out for his knife. It fumbled blindly, once, twice, before he tore his eyes away from Anton kicking Pomponio on the ground. He turned just in time to see Thomas drive Salvatore’s own dagger into the back of his hand, pinning it against the table. His screams became the new loudest sound in the tavern.
Keeping one hand on the dagger handle, Thomas leaned over and grabbed a handful of Salvatore’s thick hair. He slammed the man’s head into the table and then pressed his cheek into the hard surface so that he could see his hand skewered in place. Like lava, blood seeped out of the wound and ran down the sides of Salvatore’s hand. And when Thomas leaned the blade to one side, it very well could have been lava seeping into his flesh the way Salvatore screamed.
Thomas allowed the blade to stand up straight, and Salvatore quieted down. His eyes were still clenched shut, however, and tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Do not move,” Thomas said. He spoke to Salvatore, but he fixed his eyes on the other two Venetians who were still seated across from Noll.
“I think he means you two,” Noll said. Their eyes looked at their master being pummeled on the floor, across at Thomas resting his hand on Salvatore’s bloody dagger, and then at one another. As one they held up their hands to show they were unarmed and intended to stay that way.
Noll eased himself away from the table and walked to where Anton had just delivered one last knee into the moaning form of Pomponio. Rivers of blood ran from his nose, one corner of his mouth, and from c
uts around his eyes. One side of his face was purple and had already puffed up to almost twice its original size.
Noll drew his own sword and put it against the Venetian’s throat. Pomponio moaned.
“Dead,” Noll said. “Oh so very dead, no?”
***
Noll decided to keep the Venetians’ horses in exchange for an open clapboard wagon pulled by two nags. While Thomas, Anton, and a dozen of Noll’s men stood nearby, Pomponio’s men loaded him and a still-groaning Salvatore into the back. Noll tossed Pomponio’s hat into the back of the wagon and it hit Pomponio in the face. He grimaced as he was forced to move his broken wrist, which he held tightly against his chest.
“I will have men following you with crossbows. If you stop before the top of the pass, I have ordered them to shoot,” Noll said.
Pomponio’s face was beginning to bruise over and swell from Anton’s beating. He mumbled at Noll through his stiffened jaw.
“The Austrians will see you get what you deserve. Come summer, I will be drinking to your demise, young Melchthal.”
Noll cut him off by slapping one of the horses. The wagon lurched into motion and both Salvatore and Pomponio grunted in pain. They watched in silence as the slow moving wagon crawled up the road, headed toward Saint Gotthard’s Pass.
Before it disappeared from sight, Noll turned to Thomas.
“We should discuss the training regimen. The next session was scheduled for the day after tomorrow by Pomponio. Unfortunately, the men have already been told, so we will have to stick with that. Too bad.”
Thomas nodded. Noll was about to hear something else he would not like.
“On that day, we will need to make a list with every man’s name on it. And they will have to mark it. If any man misses training he will be punished. And I want to know exactly how many men we have and what weapons or armor they bring with them.”
“Fair enough,” Noll said. “Then what?”