by J. K. Swift
Screeching with glee, a small boy burst out of a thicket and ran toward Seraina. He had light brown hair and eyes so dark they could have been black. He was no older than four, but his legs seemed long, his little feet uncannily sure-footed as he tottered along the forest floor. A few steps behind, came a girl a couple years older laughing herself breathless. As she ran, her long, light-colored hair flashed in the dappled sunlight and she looked toward Seraina with emerald eyes.
Seraina’s heart ached and she felt a cross between pure joy and pride bubble within as she stared at the children running toward her. And then she saw Thomas, and her heart lurched once more. He was older, his hair more gray than brown, but his face was somehow younger, and unlined. The years even seemed to have faded his scar. As he chased the children, his children, he wore a smile so beautiful, so filled with happiness, Seraina wanted to cry.
With her vision beginning to cloud with tears, Seraina knelt down and opened her arms to the children. The boy ran past without even glancing at her. The girl too passed her by, but unlike her brother, she gave Seraina a curious look that seemed to ask Who are you?
Seraina realized then that the girl’s eyes were not emerald green, but a deep blue.
Confused, Seraina whirled in time to see the children jump into the arms of a woman Seraina had never seen before. She was blonde-haired and beautiful. Thomas joined them a second later, and encircled them all in a hug. The children shrieked, Thomas laughed, and the woman smiled.
Seraina had never seen Thomas look so happy. And she had never felt so much pain.
She turned away from the sight, but something forced her to look back. When she did, the woman and children were gone. Only Thomas remained.
He now wore a tunic that looked like it was knitted together from drops of blood. He stared at Seraina and his face creased over with anger. And then he spoke.
“You mean me. I am the cause.”
Seraina sat upright in the darkness. The sound of her heart pounding in her ears drowned out the stream and the surrounding forest. She took in a long, deep, shuddering breath.
It was Thomas.
It had always been him. He was the one around which all others pivoted.
He was the Catalyst.
The Weave was reforming around his actions, his decisions. Not Noll’s. The changes in the Weave all began when Thomas arrived. Seraina had misread the signs.
Noll was special—he was an Adept. That is what Seraina had sensed. He could have been a druid, with the proper training, but he was discovered too late in life. However, he was no Catalyst.
How could I have been so blind?
Noll had been locked in a back-and-forth struggle against the Habsburgs for years, with no one able to gain the upper hand. Then Thomas appeared, and within the short span of less than a year, they had driven the Austrians out of Altdorf, seized control of their fortress, and raised an army. When Noll was in charge, men had trickled in to join his cause, but the moment Thomas took control of the Confederate forces, men flocked to his banner. Just as Vercingetorix had united the tribes against the invading armies of Julius Caesar over thirteen hundred years ago. Vercingetorix had seemingly come out of nowhere to terrorize the Roman forces. So too had Thomas.
Though much smaller in scale, the timing was right; the parallels unmistakable. The Weave had returned to them a wayward son of the Helvetii destined to unite the people against an unjust foreign occupation.
Looking back it all made perfect sense. But Seraina had become too close to see it. She had become blind to the Weave’s pattern because she stood in its center and was unable to view it in its entirety. She had done the one thing an Eye of the Weave must never do: she had fallen in love with the very Catalyst she had been put in this world to guide. Even worse, she had allowed him to fall in love with her, thereby putting the future of all her people at risk.
Who knew what choices Thomas would make for her alone, with no thought toward the greater pattern? His concern for her would make him deaf to the subtle calls of the Weave and he could miss his one chance to lead his people successfully through a period of great change. Perhaps he already had. Seraina could not know for sure.
Seraina had gained a lover. But in doing so, she may have robbed the Helvetii of their last chance for survival.
Vercingetorix.
Seraina tried to put the name out of her mind, but she could not. Some say it was the Druids who had failed him, as well. After a series of brilliant victories against the Romans, he was ultimately defeated and imprisoned by Caesar. For five long years he was kept in chains and tortured. Once he had been reduced to an empty husk of a man, the greatest general the Celts had ever known was paraded through the streets of Rome and then slowly strangled.
Seraina hugged her knees and dropped her forehead to her arms. The lillies of the valley flooded her nostrils; so wonderful to smell, but deadly poisonous if eaten.
By Ardwynna’s Grace, what have I done?
Chapter 19
Franco Roemer attempted to blink away the sweat in his eyes but only succeeded in making them burn. His arms were stretched back over his head and his fingers clutched a net stuffed with hay. His farm was located near Landeck, a small Austrian village located on a lush valley floor and squeezed between scenic mountain ranges.
The load was not heavy, balanced as it was over his broad shoulders, but it was awkward. The heat of the midday sun combined with the prickling spear-ends of the dry hay made for an uncomfortable task. But it was the last trip of the day. That thought brought a grin to his bearded face, and the knowledge that his wife was making meat pies for dinner added a bounce to his step.
His destination, a small hay shed on the other side of the road, was within sight. Franco tilted his head and did his best to wipe his brow on his shoulder without upsetting his load. He stepped over the ditch and stumbled onto the road, almost losing everything. He swayed back and forth, lurched forward a few steps, one back, and forward again, all the while talking to himself.
”Whoa now, easy does it. Hang onto her Roemer… there we go.” Just when he thought he had it under control, the bottom half slid off his back and the entire thing slipped out of his fingers onto the road.
“Merde!”
He grinned at his sudden exclamation and shook his head. He was not French. But his wife was, and the use of her word told him something that he already knew. She was on his mind, and the sooner he got this task over and done with, the sooner he could be sitting at his table with her and the children.
He rolled his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while he looked down at the net of hay; its golden strands splayed across the road like a maiden’s hair removed from the coif. He thought of what his wife would say and laughed out loud, thankful she had not been present to witness his clumsiness. When he had brought her back from Neuchatel six years ago, his family and neighbors had been delighted. To them, all born in the German-speaking Alps surrounding Landeck, she was a foreign exotic. They chatted about her like she was a countess from Paris, even though everyone knew she was merely the daughter of a dairy farmer a few valleys over.
Still, in many ways, she would always be considered an outsider in the close-knit community of Landeck. Franco knew it was sometimes difficult for her, but she was a resilient woman who knew how to stand up for herself. Although the locals soon learned to fear her sharp tongue, Franco knew it could be just as sweet. They had three fine children together, and if Franco had his way he would soon make it four.
He knelt and began re-stuffing hay back into the net. A familiar tremor beneath his feet gave him pause, and he stopped to look up the road. Three horsemen, riding fast, rounded a bend in the road. He shaded his eyes.
Soldiers. The King’s Eagles, no less.
Franco stood. As he considered diving off the road, one of the men pointed in his direction. It was too late. They had seen him.
Within seconds they pulled up in front of him, their horses slick with s
weat. The animals snorted and their nostrils flared as they took advantage of the break in their pace to refill their lungs. Even before their sergeant spoke, Franco had a bad feeling come over him.
“You there. Tell me of the nearest stream, or trough, where we can water our animals.”
Franco wiped his hands on his work-stained breeches. His damp tunic clung to his chest. He looked at the hardened, sour faces of each man in turn and decided he did not want any of them near his home. Or his family. He raised an arm and pointed down the road toward the town of Landeck.
“Landeck is only a few miles ahead,” he said.
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Our animals are thirsty. Where do you get your water?”
Franco avoided the man’s gaze and looked over the horses. They were tall, fine mounts. “They are thirsty, all right. But they will easily make it to the Inn River before they have need to drink. If you rested them, they would even make Salzburg if need be.”
“Will they now?”
He nudged his horse forward, forcing Franco to take a step back. The soldier let go of his reins and allowed his horse to graze on the hay at its feet.
“Where is your home, man? These are the King’s animals. They have more right to your land, and everything on it, than you do.”
Franco made no attempt to answer. He kept his eyes down and focused on the sergeant’s horse as it tugged at a few strands of hay caught in the netting.
“I ask again. Where is your farm? And do not lie to me or I will come back and pull out your tongue. And cut that twine, damn you, so my animal can feed properly.”
Franco looked up. “Cut it yourself,” he said.
A silence settled over the men like a wet blanket. Franco thought even the horse stopped chewing. The sergeant looked at his two men and laughed, but it sounded more like he had a pheasant bone caught in his throat.
Staring at Franco, the sergeant slowly drew his sword. The sound of steel grating against a leather scabbard rang through the air. He let out a tired sigh, like a man who had exhausted all reasonable methods of communication, and leaned forward to place the flat of his blade against Franco’s shoulder.
“Take your time and consider your next words carefully,” he said.
Franco looked up. He nodded. “In my life, I have suffered many beatings from men better than you,” he said. “Mind you, I was a child, then.” His lips spread into a grin. “So, I do not expect to get one today.”
The sergeant’s horse sensed a change come over his master and he jerked his head up from the hay. The soldier pulled back his blade and swung its flat edge at Franco’s head. It was a quick, lazy swing, but it was unchecked and had enough force behind it to shatter the bones in a man’s face. If it connected.
Franco dropped to the ground on his back, watching as the blade fanned through the air above. The sergeant tried to halt his swing, but he could not prevent the flat of his blade from slapping his mount’s neck. The startled horse whinnied in alarm and gave a buck in protest.
Keeping his eyes on the horse’s iron-shod hooves, Franco rolled beneath the belly of the animal and came to his knees on the sergeant’s opposite side. He knocked the soldier’s foot out of its stirrup, stood up, and grabbed the man’s tunic. In one fluid motion he pulled the man toward him, hopped high into the air, and swung his leg over the stallion’s back to land just behind the saddle.
The sergeant let out a surprised howl as Franco’s momentum pulled him half out of the saddle. A lesser horseman would have been on the ground already, but the sergeant was a Royal Eagle, and Franco knew these men could ride. The sergeant dropped his sword and grabbed a fistful of the horse’s long mane as he hung off its side and fought to keep his one leg hooked over the saddle. His foot quested blindly for the stirrup so he could push himself back up.
Confused and uncertain about who exactly its master was, the horse began turning in tight circles. Franco changed that by giving him a hard, open-handed slap on its rump.
“Hyah!”
The horse broke into a gallop, leaving the other two soldiers staring wide-mouthed after their commanding officer as he hung onto the side of his mount like a gypsy stunt rider. But his screams and frantic scrambling soon dispelled that illusion and revealed his lack of the wandering folk’s talent with horses. The man seated behind him, however, was another matter.
Franco reached over the struggling sergeant, who continued to hold on with only one leg draped over the saddle, and took hold of the reins with one hand. He spun the animal in a tight circle and the sergeant cursed as he slid further over the side.
Franco laughed. He could not help himself. He guided the horse straight and slapped its rump again. It bolted ahead, and then Franco spun him again. As the sergeant’s heel slid over the smooth leather of the saddle, Franco helped it along with a flick of his hand. The soldier’s feet bounced once and then dragged on the ground, and his fingers gave up their grip on the horse’s mane. He fell onto the road amidst a cloud of dust. Franco heard him cough once as he hit and then he began shouting.
“After him! He is stealing my horse!”
Franco hopped forward to sit in the saddle and kicked his horse into a gallop. He leaned low over the stallion’s neck and stroked it as he raced down the road.
“He thinks I aim to steal you, old boy,” he said into the horse’s ear. It twitched at his breath. Franco reined in the horse and guided him with his knees to turn around.
“Steal you,” Franco repeated, contempt heavy in his voice. He gave the stallion another pat on his muscular neck. “You are a good mount. Well-trained and strong.” He pointed at the two riders coming toward them.
“The dun on the left fears you, my friend. Pay him no heed. But the black stallion thinks you are weak. Together we shall show him the truth.” He gave him one last pat and sat up straight in the saddle.
“Hyah!”
The two soldiers shifted in their saddles when they saw Franco turn and begin galloping straight at them. They fumbled to draw their swords and kicked their own mounts into a full charge.
Franco leaned over his horse’s neck and took up the slack in the reins. He guided his horse directly at the gap between the two oncoming animals, using pressure from his legs and hands to remind his stallion that Franco was the one in full control. He waited until the exact moment he could clearly see the features of the men’s faces and then he wheeled his horse hard to the left, directly at the flank of the dun. The horse’s eyes widened and he veered a step away from the charge, cutting off the large black and there was a moment of panic as both men fought to prevent their horses from colliding.
Franco shot past and immediately turned his mount. The soldiers, with their horses once more under control, spun to see Franco already bearing down on them. But it was too late for them to meet him with a charge of their own.
Franco pulled his leg over his horse’s head to ride side-saddle a second before his horse rammed into the side of the black with its shoulder. Caught from the side and off balance, the black whinnied in fear as its long legs flipped out from under it and it fell onto its side. Fortunately, his rider had the presence of mind to throw himself clear just before the collision. But Franco could see the man had hit the ground hard and was showing no sign of movement.
The other soldier closed on Franco and stabbed at him with his sword. Franco slid down off his saddle to avoid the blow. Keeping his horse between him and his opponent, he ran a few steps beside it until he could pull himself back up into the saddle in safety. He turned his horse and charged the man’s weak side. He was right handed and once inside the arc of his sword, the soldier’s options were limited.
Franco caught the soldier’s arm as he attempted a backhanded slash. He struck him in the face and then looped his arm over the man’s elbow. Then, using both his arms in a scissors motion, he jerked the soldier’s arm back into a painful shoulder lock. The Eagle screeched as Franco dragged him out of the saddle and threw him to the ground.
Franco lifted his leg over his horse’s head and slid off the saddle. He picked up the man’s sword and pressed it into the hollow of his throat. The King’s messenger clutched his shoulder, his eyes wet with pain.
“Who are you?” he asked, grimacing.
Franco saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head but kept the sword at the man’s neck. The sergeant limped slowly toward them. His sword was in its scabbard and one hand seemed to be favoring the small of his back.
“Fool,” he said. “Who do you think he is?”
He paused to work up a mouthful of phlegm, then spit it onto the road. Franco noticed it was tinted with blood. The sergeant looked at him and the muscles around one of his eyes twitched.
“This here is Franco Roemer. Commander of the Stormriders.”
He glanced over to where the other soldier was trying to catch a fidgety black stallion.
“The very man we have been sent to find.”
***
Leopold leaned back in his chair and dropped the messenger’s parchment onto his desk. Even though he was alone, he suppressed the smile he felt building behind his lips.
He had feared the worst when a King’s Eagle rode into Habsburg less than an hour before. He had a premonition that his brother had been captured by Louis. Or worse. But this… he had not dared dream it was possible.
“Husband? Am I intruding?” Lady Catherine stood in the door, her hands wringing one another in front of her. She too was pleased with something, but she was not as adept as Leopold at hiding it.
“Never, my dear,” Leopold said. “Come in, come in. But close the door behind you.” He suddenly felt generous.
Her brow creased and she did as he asked. She took a seat across from him, folding her hands in her lap. “You look happy. As happy as I have ever seen you I dare say.”