by J. K. Swift
“Nonsense,” Leopold said. “Look at him. He is even older than you. But accompany me if you must.”
Leopold walked his horse forward. The old man smiled and began taking slow steps toward the two men. A strong wind blew at the old man’s back, whipping his hair and beard about his face. He closed his eyes, and his lips began to move. Something told Leopold to stop, and he yanked back on his horse’s reins.
“My lord? Is something—,”
The old man’s arms shot up toward the sky and the very air around Leopold seemed to scream. His horse reared up on its hind legs, its nostrils flaring in fear, and Leopold felt himself catapulted out of the saddle. He hit the ground hard and the air burst forth from his lungs.
He could hear laughter. A mad, gleeful cackle that ushered forth from the old man’s lips. He stood there pointing and laughing at the Duke, while the wind swirled around the old man, plucking at his gray robe like dozens of giant fingers. Leopold pushed himself to his elbows. He wheezed and gasped, trying to coax even the smallest bit of life-giving air back into his body.
He became dimly aware of movement to his right. Klaus’s horse ran by and mud from its hooves sprayed Leopold’s face. The next thing he saw was the old man’s head hitting the forest floor, the bloody stump of its neck picking up pine needles as it rolled. The laughter stopped and the woods went silent.
The headless body, however, remained standing with its arm raised and finger pointing at Leopold. Until Klaus yelled, and from his saddle, stretched out one of his long legs and kicked it over.
Klaus and several soldiers ran to the Duke, but Franco Roemer was already there, helping him sit up. Leopold’s air returned, eventually, but the sunlight that had been streaming though the trees only minutes before, had deserted them completely. After a tense few minutes they had Leopold back in the saddle of a different horse. Leopold slapped at Klaus’s hand as he attempted to steady his lord.
“Stop fussing over me! I am quite all right,” Leopold said. He kicked his horse and began heading east, away from the deadfall.
The captain of the Sturmritter pulled up beside Klaus and asked, “What do we do with the old man?”
“Leave him to the wolves,” Klaus said. Then he spurred his own mount ahead to catch up with Leopold.
Chapter 25
Franco felt it took forever for their long column to scramble over the poorly maintained road. Mountain streams regularly crossed their path, some of them so wide that Leopold would have to stop the entire column and send a scout on ahead to determine the safest point to cross. But finally, shortly after noon, the trees opened up, and they sighted the rebel forces.
Leopold signaled his army to a halt. Two mounted men waited in the middle of a lush, green field. One caught Franco’s eye immediately, for he was dressed in a red tunic with the distinctive eight-pointed Hospitaller cross on his chest. Behind them, Franco could see a long line of men crowning a hill far in the distance. Their clothes and armor were the dull, motley assortment of grays and browns common in peasant armies, but Franco saw a few more of the bright red tunics amongst their number.
“What is a knight of Saint John doing here?” Franco could not stop himself from asking.
“That is no knight,” Leopold said. “Only a pretender. A blasphemer dressed beyond his station. Pay him no mind, Sir Roemer.”
That was easier said than done, Franco thought.
“Forgive me, my lord, but the Hospitallers are the Pope’s holy soldiers. My men will have reservations, you understand.”
Leopold turned on him. “They are no longer Hospitallers. The Order has discharged them all. They are deserters turned mercenary, and now they have sold their services to a rebel army. Tell your men that.”
Leaving the column behind, Leopold, Franco, Landenberg, and Klaus trotted out to meet the two rebels.
Franco kept his eyes on the Hospitaller the whole time. He had never met one of the Black Knights in a tournament. He found himself wishing Leopold was wrong about this man being a pretender. The prospect of facing a Hospitaller knight on the field, especially one in his full red battle tunic, appealed to Franco’s competitive spirit. A shiver went through his lance arm. It had been a long time since he had felt that sensation.
He watched the Hospitaller carefully as they approached. By the time they brought their horses to a stop in front of the two men, Franco felt he had a fair understanding of the man’s abilities. He had no doubt the Hospitaller would prove a formidable opponent when his feet were planted on firm ground, but he was no horseman. His mount, a beautiful, spirited animal with the chiseled features of a true Egyptian breed, stamped its feet and threw its head around. The man was constantly jerking his reins, trying to keep the horse under his control.
“Hello Melchthal. I have been waiting for this day,” Landenberg said, his lips settling into a twisted smile. He breathed noisily through his mouth, and Franco saw saliva spray through the cool air when he spoke.
The young rebel leader remained composed and did not reward the Vogt of Unterwalden with even a glance. Instead, he looked directly at Leopold. With no preamble, and certainly no respect for the fact he addressed a Prince of the Holy Roman Empire, he began to speak.
“These are our terms. Turn around and march back to your homes.”
“You grossly overestimate your own worth if you think—,” Leopold began.
“I am not finished. Before you leave, your men will drop all their weapons and equipment on the ground at their feet. We shall accept that as a toll for coming onto our land unannounced.”
Leopold laughed and shook his head. “Still playing the part of a thief I see, eh Melchthal?”
The rebel kept speaking. His voice calm and detached. “You may keep your horses, so that your stink does not remain in our valley any longer than necessary. However, Berenger Von Landenberg must be turned over to us to be executed for reneging on his oath.”
Franco started at the young man’s direct words. He could not decide if he was brave or simply stupid beyond reason.
Landenberg was the first to respond. “That is Sir Landenberg, you whelp.” He seemed to be more concerned about the rebel not mentioning his title rather than the fact the peasants wanted to execute him.
Leopold’s lips spread into a thin line. “You have no idea how much I am going to enjoy this,” he said. “Custom dictates I respond to your terms with a counter-proposal. Very well. These are my terms. Lay down your weapons and submit to be manacled by my slave handlers. You will be put to work in the quarries and mines until the Altdorf fortress has been rebuilt, to twice its original size, or until you die. Most assuredly, the latter.”
It was the rebel’s turn to laugh. “And you, Lord Leopold, still playing the part of the tyrant?”
Leopold held up his index finger. “I am not finished,” he said, smirking. “Your wives and daughters will be given to my men as a just reward for faithful service to their Duke. They may submit quietly, if they prefer, but to be honest, my troops would much rather take the women against their wills. They are fighting men after all. And is not a savage raping the only way to cool the heat in such a man’s veins?”
Leopold cast his gaze on the man at Noll’s side. “How do you prefer to take your women, Thomas? Willing, or defiant until the end?” He looked around, mockingly. “And where is your witch by the way? I do look forward to seeing her again. It will be nice to catch up where we left off.”
The Hospitaller’s eye twitched, and because he had a long scar at its corner, the movement seemed to tug up one corner of his mouth. But he most definitely was not smiling. “She is far away from here. And safe. Which is more than I can say for your blasphemous manuscript.”
Leopold’s face clouded over. His horse turned its ears back, feeling his master’s rage, but the Duke was quick to regain his composure. He pointedly ignored the Hospitaller and began to exchange more unpleasant words with Melchthal. Franco took the opportunity to look behind the men at the lay of the lan
d and the opposing force. The rebels in the distance were spread out. Probably to give an exaggerated impression of their number. Franco estimated no more than fifty men stood on top of the hill. Perhaps that many again trying to hide behind it. Did they really think they were fooling anyone? They were armed with pole weapons of some sort, and the postures of more than half of them betrayed that they had seen the passage of too many years.
What were they armed with? Homemade spears? Pitch forks?
Franco shook his head. There would be little chance for glory in this battle. Something about the rebels’ left flank caught his eye and he craned his neck to get a better view.
Just then the Hospitaller’s horse whinnied, shuffled sideways, and then reared up on two legs. His master cursed and fought to regain control. Klaus spurred his mount forward in front of Leopold and had his sword half drawn, thinking his lord was under attack. However, it quickly became apparent that the rebel had simply lost control of his fiery mount. Klaus spit on the ground and backed his horse away. Franco was the first to speak once everyone relaxed somewhat.
“You have a fine animal,” he said to the Hospitaller.
The man looked at Franco. His dark eyes stood out against his long facial scar like coal on snow. He nodded once, but offered no words.
“I would have you know that I intend to claim him when this battle is over. However, I will allow his return to you, if you can afford his ransom. Provided you are still alive, of course.”
For some reason that Franco could not understand, Leopold found his claim to be humorous. He laughed, leaning low in his saddle.
The scar-faced man cleared his throat. “If you have my horse, there will be no ransom paid. For I will be quite dead.”
There was something about the way the man spoke that made Franco want to take a closer look at him. There was no false bravado in his words, nor did he utter an idle threat, like so many men tended to do in order to quell their own fears. The Hospitaller’s horse fidgeted some more, shifting from side to side, like he knew he was the topic of discussion.
“If it should happen otherwise,” Franco began. “And you find yourself holding the reins of my own destrier, I trust that you will afford me the same opportunity to buy him back.”
When the Hospitaller spoke, his words were slow and deliberate. “We both know that will never happen. One way or another.”
Leopold rolled his eyes and sighed. “If you two are finished sniffing out one another, I would like to call an end to these negotiations.”
He performed an elaborate mocking bow aimed at the rebels. “It seems we have reached an impasse. Regrettably, the only alternative is war. Enjoy the afternoon, gentlemen.” He squinted at the thick cloud banks rolling in. “Pity, it looks like rain.”
Without waiting for anyone to respond, he wheeled his horse around and galloped back toward his army. Landenberg’s face broke into a greedy grin. He raised his arm and pointed at the rebel leader, and then jammed his heels into his horse’s side to take off after Leopold. Klaus, ignoring everyone, eased his mount away and walked after them, like he was in no hurry to be in anyone’s company, friend or foe alike.
“I look forward to meeting you on the field,” Franco said. He gave the Hospitaller a curt nod and trotted back toward his place at the head of the Sturmritter.
***
“I think that went quite well,” Noll said.
Thomas scowled as he reined his horse around. “What are you talking about? You were supposed to stall. Use up as much time as possible. Not send them galloping out of here, enraged like a kicked nest of hornets!”
“Well, maybe you should have done some talking then. For my first war negotiation I think I did very well.”
“Very well? You virtually demanded they surrender and allow you to execute an Austrian noble in front of them. What kind of terms are those?”
“What has gotten into you? You are even more miserable than usual. Or is this just how you act before every battle?”
Thomas pushed Anid into a gallop. They did not have time to stand about arguing. Noll shouted something at him and followed close behind.
Though it pained him to admit, Noll was right about one thing. Thomas was more miserable than usual. And that was because he had met Franco Roemer. He had looked into the Austrian’s eyes and where he had hoped to see a cocky, self-absorbed knight, he had seen a leader. An intelligent, experienced warrior with the most skilled knights in the western world under his command.
He leaned over and whispered into Anid’s ear. The stallion leaped forward leaving Noll and his mountain pony far behind. He hit the bottom of the hill at lancing speed, but halfway up even Anid could no longer maintain a full gallop.
Good, Thomas thought. As long as they stayed at the very top of the rise, even the Sturmritter could not hit them with a full charge. Still, he wished he had had time to dig in cavalry pits and stakes to further slow them down and force them to break formation. But there was not enough time.
Time. The Devil’s mistress. First, they could not get enough of it, and now, they had too much. How far away was the rest of his army? How long before they would arrive? How long could less than a hundred men hold back the might of the Holy Roman Empire? Was this really the best plan Thomas could have come up with?
Perhaps he could have done better. If only he had more time.
He topped the rise and his men opened up their ranks to let him through.
“Matthias!” Thomas called the boy to him as he jumped out of Anid’s saddle. “You ride Anid and lead Noll’s horse back to the men furthest away. Can you do that?”
“I could. But, Cap’n, I might miss the fighting.”
“Then you better ride fast and run back even faster. And tell the men to double up on the horses.”
The boy hesitated and glanced at the reins Thomas held out.
“That is an order, son. If you want to be part of this army, you must obey orders. Is that understood?”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
Matthias snatched the reins from Thomas’s hand and was in the saddle before Thomas had to say another word.
“They will be here. I swear,” Matthias said.
Noll finally appeared, and Matthias had his horse’s reins before Noll’s feet touched the ground. A second later he was galloping over the grassy slopes toward Schwyz, the soft, moist ground silencing the hoof-beats. Within seconds the mist enveloped both boy and horse and there was no sign that either had ever existed. The other horses had already been sent back. Thomas was well aware that four more men would make little difference, but knowing the boy would not be here when the fighting began, allowed Thomas to breathe a little easier.
Thomas stood at the bottom of the hill, the side furthest away from the Austrian army. He looked at his own forces: half were assembled on top the hill, in full view, and the other half crouched low behind its base. They had rounded up every last horse and mule available and rode here at full speed.
Eighty-nine mounts. Eighty-nine men. Handpicked by Thomas himself. Thomas had set quill to parchment yet again, and created another list. He glanced around him, seeking the Religion’s red war tunics, and found his friends easily enough. Ruedi, Max, Urs, and Anton; they were the only survivors from the first list he had ever created. Both lists had started out with a similar number of names, and he could not help but wonder at the irony of it all.
Who was he to choose? Were the lists God’s work, or the Devil’s?
He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. He reminded himself that on the other side of this hill, eight thousand Austrians wound their way toward them.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. Noll held out a water skin. “Better drink up,” he said. “We might end up sweating a bit.”
He grinned at Thomas, and more than a little surprised, Thomas found himself grinning back. Then Noll raised his voice so all the men could hear him. “That goes for everyone. If you have skins now would be the time to use them. Does not matter what is i
n them. No man in this army fights thirsty!”
Thomas took a long drink and was relieved that it was actually water, not wine. Cool, fresh water from one of the countless glacier-fed streams that quenched the landscape’s thirst and kept the slopes covered in thick, green grass. Thomas thought of all the times he had gone thirsty over the years in the Holy Lands. Water was worth more than gold in Outremer. If he had possessed even a fraction of the water that now surrounded him, he would have been the richest man in the Levant.
He took one more drink and then he walked up the slope. Thomas took his spot between Anton and Max at the front of the square.
Seven men wide, seven men deep.
Behind him, in the second row next to Urs, Sutter called his name. Thomas turned and Sutter held out Pirmin’s great ax. Its heavy head glistened with the wetness of the fog. Through the small cross cut into its center, Thomas could see the outlying buildings of the small hamlet of Schafstetten. And far in the distance, although he could not see it, in his heart he felt the church of Sattel watching over them all.
“The big guy would be ‘right pissed’ if he missed out on this day entirely,” Sutter said, his voice breaking ever so slightly.
Thomas took the ax. He was once again amazed at how light it felt in his hands. As he rotated the shaft in his grip, a sing-song Wallis accent sounded in his head.
“Do not fret none, Thomi. I would not make you carry it all by yourself.”
The fog was building, and its moisture seemed to accumulate on Thomas’s cheeks more than anywhere else. He drew a hand across his face and stared out at the enemy.
***
“Captain Roemer!” Klaus called out.
Franco left his place at the front of the Sturmritter and trotted over to join Leopold, Klaus, and Landenberg.
“Your commands, my lord?”
“I want that hill with a single charge,” Leopold said. “I see no reason to waste any time here.”