The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  Men appeared out of the smoke dressed all in black and with masks tied about the lower halves of their faces. The naked blades in their hands were more than enough to convince Gwilym that the fire had been no accident.

  Gwilym groaned in despair. He counted no less than six men moving through the smoke. They were like the ghosts that haunted the old Roman ruins that dotted Europe’s landscape. Gwilym and Radu were surrounded.

  One of the cloaked men, evidently the leader, stepped forward. Radu stood where he had retrieved his weapons. Aches temporarily forgotten, Gwilym slid down the haystack to stand behind the mercenary. The man in black spoke, his voice echoed like a phantom from beyond the grave.

  “Cast aside your weapons and your end shall be made merciful. Fight and be slain by men twice your better.”

  “Why?” cried Gwilym. He didn’t bother trying to hide his fear. “What wrong have we done you sir that you should so doggedly seek our deaths?”

  Gwilym blanched. These were no mere cutthroats and this was no chance encounter. Their blades were new. The boiled leather armor they wore had been blackened and carried no sigil or device. These were professionals, assassins, but sent by whom and for what purpose? Certainly not for an innocent Welsh minstrel?

  Radu took in the surrounding assassins. His stance was defensive and unhurried. Like an animal, waiting for his enemy to reveal a momentary weakness. Gwilym felt better to see the mercenary undaunted.

  “You shall not live to rue the day you did not kill me with your fire.” Radu spoke so softly that for a moment Gwilym wondered if the cloaked man had even heard Radu speak.

  “Who are you, boy?” The cloaked man asked.

  “Radu of Transylvania.”

  “I have heard of you,” he sneered. “And that you were full of false bluster, boy. To quote one description, ’You are as dull as your father’s ax.’ You involve yourself in matters beyond your understanding.”

  Radu smiled and Gwilym would later swear it looked as though he possessed the fangs of a beast, so wicked was the grin to behold. “You are with him. I’ll slowly draw out of you lot where he might be found!”

  In response the cloaked man raised his sword, a Sassanid blade. “Kill them!”

  Radu’s back was to the burning manor, the light from the fire cast dancing shadows upon the ground. Undoubtedly, the people of Saint Josse witnessed the flames down below, but would they act to save the mansion and the people they knew were inside? Gwilym doubted it. Fear, mistrust and superstition would keep them indoors. Gwilym and Radu were on their own, the Franciscan undoubtedly trapped somewhere within, burning alive or passed out drunk. Gwilym cursed his ill fortune and drew his saber with a trembling arm. Radu saw him do so and nodded in approval.

  “Focus on the parry, keep them at bay. I shall be about the butchering, but I’ll need one alive for questioning!” With that Radu threw himself at the nearest cloaked assassin, who raised his own Turkish scimitar to block the descending swing from Radu’s fokos. The ax bit into the sword blade and the assassin rocked back a step by the sheer force of the blow. Radu pressed forward even as two more assassins moved in from either side. Radu’s face was joyous. Here was where life mattered most! Here, at the end of a sword blade, was where fates were decided in an instant!

  Radu’s ax pressed down upon the assassin’s scimitar, his sword in his other hand darted in and stabbed at the assassin’s left shoulder, the blade parting cloth, then armor, then flesh. The assassin howled in pain, his defense forgotten. It was the opening Radu needed. He spun on his heel, bringing the ax blade around in a full circle to bite deep into the assassin’s hidden throat. Blood gushed from the wound and the assassin plummeted to the ground.

  Meanwhile, the assassin who had spoken moved forward to engage Gwilym.

  “I just met the man a few fortnights ago fellow. Surely fates are not intertwined in so short an interval of time!” Gwilym kept his saber up defensively, but he knew he wasn’t fooling the assassin. The man saw he was untrained with the blade and confidently swept forward his Sassanid blade in a horizontal slash.

  “I’ll make it quick, boy.”

  The sword bore down like a thunderbolt and a numbing sensation spread through Gwilym’s arm when the two blades met. Gwilym knew it was a miracle he still held the saber, and he prayed to Saint Maurice, Patron Saint of Swordsmiths, that the blade would hold true. The assassin moved, his blade stabbed forward like a striking snake. Rather than parry, Gwilym relied upon his own agility and leapt backwards as he wracked his brain for a way out.

  The leader would catch and kill him and the four men encircling Radu would eventually overpower the mercenary. Gwilym felt a moment of elation when he noticed one of the assassins fall to Radu’s whirling ax. Now there were three wary assassins circling the grinning Radu. Still, the odds were against them. Clearly, Radu was the greater threat and the remaining killers would undoubtedly bring him down.

  I should have run directly to Prince Edward to beg off this task. What was King Edward thinking? Does he believe me unworthy of his son’s patronage and therefore sought to remove me through means of sacrificing me in battle? I should simply leave their service! I’ll pocket what I deserve and return to Wales! I can support myself with my poems. That’s it! I’ll write a book!

  There was no more time for thought. Gwilym felt an intense heat at his back and glanced behind and upward just in time to see part of the roof of the mansion cave in, a great cloud of black smoke wafted upward and the crackle of the flames grew ever louder. Gwilym heard horses neigh in fear. The assassin’s horses? His question was answered a moment later when a crossbow bolt hissed past his ear and thudded into the assassin leader’s thigh.

  With a curse the man fell back and Gwilym heard a whoop of triumph from behind him. “At ‘im, Gwilym! Finish the bastard off with yer pig sticker!”

  Eurastes! The flames had brought the Franciscan’s henchman running to aid his master. Gwilym spared no more time for thought. He leapt forward to bring his saber down in an arc at the felled assassin’s head.

  Radu killed another. An assassin foolishly rushed forward to avenge his dead comrade and found the crossed guard of a fokos and sword waiting. Radu’s kick took the assassin in the stomach, doubling him over. Radu’s blades tore down through flesh and into lungs.

  That was not the end. Even as the assassin clung to what little life he had left, Radu jerked the body around, blades still within him, and used it to keep his two remaining fellows at bay. An assassin hissed in anger as his sword drove into his former comrade’s body instead of Radu. Then those who still lived heard the bellow of rage that came from the direction of the manor and caused everyone to pause.

  “You black hearted, property burning, devil worshipping, wick shagging sons of whores!”

  The Franciscan burst out of a heretofore unseen cellar door like a shot from a cannon, his backside smoking comically. His face, blackened with soot, made his gnashing teeth stand out in stark relief. “Do you have any idea how many casks of fine red you have destroyed?” With a cry of anguish, the fat priest threw himself into the men accosting Radu, his great mace Baptizer caved in the skull of an assassin. “Such a waste!”

  “The wine or the lives?” Gwilym panted incredulously. The Franciscan’s sudden entrance had thrown off his swing. The wounded assassin was able bring up his blade and block the swing meant for his neck.

  “This isn’t over!” The cowled man hissed and, fighting through the pain in his leg, shoved Gwilym back and away with his blade. He regained his feet and hobbled quickly towards the concealing shadows of the forest. His one remaining cohort broke off his attack upon Radu, but kept his blade facing the dangerous mercenary. The assassin leader drew an object from around his neck and blew into it, eliciting a high pitched whistle.

  An Ocarina? Gwilym wondered. An answering whistle sounded from behind them towards the village! Others behind us as well? Our escape blocked!

  The Franciscan hurtled insults and blasphemo
us oaths at the retreating assassins, but seemed in no vain to pursue as he hacked and coughed from prolonged exposure to smoke. One meaty hand rested on his knee and sweat ran in soot smearing rivulets down his face.

  “No,” growled Radu. He leapt forward, fokos slashing right, left and diagonally. “Tell me where he is, you craven whelps!” His sword tore a gash in the arm of the retreating assassin.

  “Radu stop!” shouted Gwilym. Radu’s ax was poised for a killing blow upon the assassin who had lost his footing and fallen. “You wanted one of them alive, remember?” Radu flicked his wrist, spun the fokos so that the blunt side was now facing outward and completed his swing. With a loud thwack he knocked the assassin senseless.

  Radu turned and and nodded at Gwilym, silently thanking the minstrel for returning him to his senses. The Franciscan had recovered enough to stalk over to them both. Bits of brain matter and blood still dripped from Baptizer. Eurastes darted forward scanning the forest. His crossbow still held at the ready, but he could no longer see any sign of the retreating assassins. They had disappeared leaving their dead behind, as well as one now senseless prisoner.

  “An entire wine cellar destroyed, a Count’s property demolished and cloaked men trying to kill us?” The Franciscan glared at Gwilym and then at Radu. “I’ll not take kindly to anything less than a full explanation! Should it not meet with satisfaction, well then,” the burly priest shook blood spatters from his spiked mace with great emphasis. “I’ll gladly hear your confessions!”

  Chapter 6

  “So this killer this… Nachzehrer whom this dangerous lad is after is the one responsible for these murders, you believe?” The Franciscan inquired.

  Gwilym sighed and nodded. Radu had all but confirmed it. His confidence that the assassins had been associated with the Nachzehrer was unshakeable, but his reasons vague. As soon as Gwilym, the Franciscan, Eurastes, and Radu, with a bound and unconscious assassin over one of his shoulders had fled to a safe distance from the doomed manor, Gwilym began to fill the Franciscan in on all that had led him to that moment.

  The Franciscan listened attentively, asking a question here and there. Eurastes ran back to the town and returned with a bucket brigade of frightened townsfolk. Eurastes reported there was no sign of their attackers. The townsfolk said that the strange men who had thundered into town on horses had milled about until they heard a whistle from the manor, then left the town as swiftly as they had come.

  “These hired knives work for this killer?” the Franciscan asked.

  “One can only assume such,” answered Gwilym, who sipped from a wineskin given him by Eurastes. “Radu had words with their leader who practically admitted to the association.”

  The Franciscan grunted. “What I do not understand is why they returned to the scene of the crime? Unless something was missed or forgotten?”

  “Something the Nachzehrer did not want found,” Radu said as he walked to where the two sat. He had been checking the bonds holding their prisoner. He’d already lost one bounty recently and had no wish to lose his best lead for another.

  Gwilym sighed and tossed a stick into their small campfire behind a local’s barn. They would be sleeping with goats and cows this night. After watching the manor that had stood above their town for decades consumed by fire, the peasants of Saint Josse wanted nothing more to do with the outsiders. No matter how much Gwilym swore innocence and the Franciscan threatened excommunication, only a barn for a single night had been agreed upon. A meager meal of turnips and rendered goat broth had also been provided.

  It didn’t take a seer for Gwilym to realize they were involved in something far beyond land disputes, rival nobles and a war for a crown. He had felt blessed to be invited into Prince Edward’s retinue, because it meant good food and wine, soft beds and lazy evenings of discussing poetry and history with educated nobility. Days of riding with chivalrous knights who adhered to the ideals of Roland had been his vision of grandeur. How different reality was!

  Gwilym drew his saber from its sheath. There was a small nick in the blade from when he had struck it against the assassin’s sword. Where was that man now? Had Eurastes’ bolt been fatal? Gwilym highly doubted it. He felt it down to his marrow they had not seen the last of that mysterious killer, a man in the pay of the still more mysterious Nachzehrer. Gwilym had grown tired of so many mysteries. He whirled around, slammed the saber back into its sheath and approached the fire and Radu with determination. The mercenary looked up from where he was again reading the letter and trying to discern more from it.

  “Tell us who the Nachzehrer is and why you seek him so.” Gwilym clenched his fist and set his jaw. Good, he had said that without trembling. “You may hunt after bounties for coin, but this one is personal to you. Why? At least tell us who you are?”

  Radu’s face remained impassive. The Franciscan grunted and bit into a loaf of bread Eurastes had managed to procure from Saint Josse. His bearded face was stained red around his mouth from the wine, but he looked at Radu with sober eyes. Eurastes leaned back against the wagon and whittled intently at a piece of wood, but he cocked an ear in their direction.

  Radu sighed and set the letter aside. He removed his fokos from its sheath across his back and laid it upon his lap. Then he reached into a saddlebag and removed two grayish blue stones and tossed one to Gwilym.

  “Keep your blade sharp, minstrel,” Radu said and ran the whetstone slowly over the ax head with a shikking sound. “Because nobody will do it for you.” Radu’s eyes stared far away into the night and for a few moments there was no sound save the shikking sound of whetstone meeting ax blade and then Gwilym’s whetstone echoing the sound over the saber. Then Radu spoke again. “A dull blade against the Nachzehrer will mean your death.”

  Chapter 7

  “When Rome fell nearly a thousand years ago, it began as a slow decay of everything that had made it the civilization it was. Laws are always the first to go as they are what exist to protect the weak. What is civilization if not a check against uninhibited strength? Not the stuff of politics or religions, but of the strong. Warlords, conquerors and killers. Empires are built upon the bones of the weak. It is the weak who resist change the most, who clamor for laws and civilizations even as they cry against the brutality of those who must forge it for them. The Nachzehrer is the exact opposite of this. He is the antithesis of that word ‘civilization’.”

  Radu paused a moment to see if his words had sunk in. Gwilym’s brow furrowed in thought, Eurastes whittled furiously at his piece of wood, and the Franciscan chewed upon some bread, a critical eye cast in Radu’s direction.

  “So he is a murderer then?” the Franciscan rumbled. Radu smirked.

  “It would be far too simple to label him so. It would be like saying you are no different than that priest de Lisle you detest so much.” The Franciscan’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “You are both men of the Catholic Church. You both believe that Jesus Christ is Lord.”

  “That hardly makes us similar!” the Franciscan bellowed. “He is as slippery as a barrel full of lampreys!”

  “That is my point, monk!” Radu said raising his voice to match the Franciscan’s. “You cannot call the Nachzehrer a killer or even a mercenary as we are and then expect to understand him!” Cowed, the Franciscan leaned back and munched on his bread loaf. Gwilym meekly voiced a question.

  “Then what should such a man be called?”

  “Death,” Radu answered simply. “Not just the death of men. The death of everything. Learning, progress, civilization itself. He seeks to remake the world as it was after Rome fell. A ruin ripe for reforging and remaking. A world where the weak are kept in perpetual servitude or killed and only the strong are fit to rule.”

  The Franciscan barked a laugh. “Does he believe he can tear man away from Christ? It is to the Vatican and His Holiness the Pope that men turn to time and again.”

  “He has burned more than his share of Churches, monk. He may hate the Pope most of all a
nd probably would burn the rest of it as well.”

  The Franciscan’s eyes widened in disbelief then narrowed as he snarled. “Then it is Demon that should be his label.” His hand strayed to the mace at his side. “I’ll not even bother hearing his Confession. I’ll send him straight to hell!”

  “Yes, but why do you seek him Radu?” Gwilym asked again. “Surely such a man has a price on his head, but that cannot be all that drives you.”

  Radu nodded in agreement. “You are right in that, minstrel. My grudge is personal. The price on his head is nil.”

  “Nothing?” Gwilym gasped in disbelief.

  Radu shook his head. “There was a German landowner some years ago who did proffer a purse that the Nachzehrer might be captured and brought to trial for the killing of a Margrave.”

  “What happened? Did none seek the purse?” The Franciscan queried.

  “The land owner and his entire family were found massacred, the manor where the family lived and even the fields burned.” They were silent for a while after digesting that.

  “How can such a beast be fought?” Eurastes asked, finally speaking up. He held a finished bit of wood that resembled a horse.

  “The Nachzehrer holds no loyalties to religion or origin. He can be bought for a time, but always he pursues his own goals.” Radu began. “Thus have I tracked him and lost him time and again, but recently I learned the names of four men who traveled with him longer than most. Men who might be able to point the way if our prisoner proves unreliable.”