Twelfth Krampus Night

by Matt Manochio

  Mumfred stood on his tiptoes to scan the crowd of thirty people that had formed a semicircle around Hans and the survivors. “Where’s the messenger? James, are you there?”

  “I am.” A lean, fit man in his twenties, James wormed his way through the people to Mumfred, who put his hand on James’s shoulder.

  “Go to the stables, get the fastest horse you can find.” Mumfred glanced at Hans’s death wound and then back to James. “Get a weapon. A dagger, something light and easy to wield. I need you to fly posthaste to inform the baron of this. Write down the names of the knights and whatever other details Otto and the lords feel sufficient and then set off. You should be able to reach the mountain’s base before it gets too dark, and then it’s not far to the port on the Rhine. Take the river until you reach Mannheim and its castle, and inform the baron.”

  “With all respect, it’s obviously dangerous out there and—”

  Mumfred pressed two fingers against James’s lips to shush him. The young messenger could not help but constantly glance at Hans’s body.

  “I realize I’m volunteering you for a suicide mission. All I’m asking is you ride your horse to the port—not the Mannheim castle. You can do it. Stop for nobody. Dress warmly. The sun’s setting fast. Go!”

  James sprinted to his quarters to prepare for the journey while Mumfred stared at the hushed crowd.

  “I suggest all of you return to your duties, whatever they may be. If you live in the village—” Mumfred specifically addressed Beate and Heinrich but spoke loud enough so that other villagers could hear, “—then we will find shelter for you tonight.”

  “Really?” It was Wilhelm.

  “Young master,” Mumfred said. “We wouldn’t want the rest of the villagers to know that we forced their loved ones to travel dangerous paths while keenly aware that brutal killers lay in wait for them.”

  “Just make sure they clean up after themselves,” Wilhelm said. “Now on to more important matters. I’m famished.” He surveyed the crowd and smiled. “Boris, what have you prepared for me?”

  The housekeeper, a portly, profusely sweaty man of thirty whose cheeks flushed red, not out of embarrassment but because the kitchen was hot, stood in the gaggle’s rear.

  “Per Lord Karl’s instructions, in honor of his guests, tonight the cooks have prepared roast duck, assorted vegetables and breads. It will be served at your leisure.”

  “Splendid.” Mumfred clapped his hands. “My lords, after you.”

  “I’ll take my meal in my chambers, if you please.” Wilhelm turned to the second gateway leading to the hall.

  “I’ll sit with our guests,” Karl countered.

  “You invited them. I’ll be ready for my fitting once they’re done gorging their little bellies.” Wilhelm glanced over his shoulder toward Beate as he walked. “You will thoroughly wash your hands.” And he was gone.

  The assemblage of curious castle workers and residents dwindled. Atop his horse, James, the messenger, dressed in a woolen tunic and cloak for warmth, rode from the stables situated at the far side of the outer courtyard.

  “Don’t leave yet,” Mumfred said and turned to Franco, the castle burgmann, who’d kept quiet but monitored the entire situation. “I want some of your best riders to escort him to the point where the bodies should be. Bring them back. Be on guard.”

  “It will take but a minute to prepare.” A white-bearded warrior in his forties who was in charge of castle security turned to Otto, who served as his second-in-command. “I’ll take care of the riders. Get some sentries to line the drawbridge when our men leave. I don’t want anyone charging his way into this castle.”

  Otto nodded and left.

  “Beate and Heinrich, please follow me to the great hall.” Mumfred cordially extended his arm.

  “What about him?” Beate pointed to Hans, his lifeless eyes still open.

  “You need not worry. I don’t believe this knight was married, so that certainly saves us the grief of informing a wife. Now come. I do want the lords fitted beginning this evening. And you.” Mumfred addressed Heinrich. “I know you’re a skilled blacksmith, and you’re quite aware of the opening here. We’ll see what you can do tomorrow to perhaps earn you an extended stay. The baron will make the final decision, naturally. But since he’s not here, why not try you out?”

  Heinrich smiled and looked at Beate, who beamed.

  “What would you need, sir?” Heinrich said.

  Mumfred waved over two stable boys who were escorting two knights’ horses to the front gatehouse. “After the knights leave, find a place to store this poor fellow.” Mumfred motioned to Hans. “Be dignified about it. We’ll bury him someplace tomorrow.”

  The boys nodded and avoided eye contact.

  “Now, as for what we’ll need.” Mumfred stroked his chin. “Based on current events, I would say weapons.”

  Chapter Eight

  The drawbridge abruptly clanked downward. No sooner had the fifty-foot-long plank covered the moat than eight guards—four on each side, brandishing broadswords and pikes—lined the bridge. They scanned all directions, waiting for a possible onslaught. The setting sun provided enough light to see.

  A knight on horseback charged across the bridge to the road leading down the mountain. James followed on his horse, keeping pace, and was trailed by a second knight on his steed. The guards watched for sudden movements from either side of the forest as the riders approached the woods.

  The drumbeat of hooves abated, and no sound or sight indicated the horsemen ran afoul of anything.

  Frau Perchta and Krampus took positions within the woods, on opposite sides of the road leading to the castle. Neither paid mind to the riders once they confirmed their mark wasn’t on horseback.

  The only rule—proposed by Perchta and agreed upon by Krampus—was that the castle’s front was off-limits to both.

  Perchta immediately disregarded it and reached for her knee-high boots, on which were four small sheaths sewn vertically along the leather.

  The eight guards had begun their cautious retreat into the barbican when, to a man, each heard two metal chinks, one right after the other.

  “Hold up!” Otto had heard it too and muscled his way through the eight guards and stood immediately behind the bridge’s pivots, looking outward, seeing nothing but a distant red sun. He called over his shoulder, “Any of you hit? Wounded?”

  Murmurings of no came in reply.

  He stepped back to make sure he was clear of the portcullis’s spikes.

  “Raise the drawbridge! Lower the gate!”

  The thick iron chains lining each side of the bridge jerked upward but halted, as did the portcullis spikes hanging overhead.

  Otto looked up. “Drop it!” He knew the portcullis was built so that when it lowered, the drawbridge would automatically rise.

  “It won’t move!” came a voice from within the castle.

  Otto drew his broadsword, holding it in one hand like a machete. He crept onto the bridge, ready to jump back in case the gate suddenly dropped. He looked up to see slim, flat objects wedged within the link of each chain leading directly into the bridge’s pulleys, concealed behind ornamental stone circles.

  “Oh my God,” Otto said.

  He heard flitting air before feeling his flesh sting. He fell to a knee and grunted and then fumbled to remove the small knife jutting from his neck near the trapezius muscle—a spot unguarded by chain mail. He plucked out a metal throwing knife and realized two of the exact same blades were preventing the chains from entering the castle, keeping the bridge down. He then heard a screech and she was upon him.

  He dropped his sword and began swatting at her, his hands and arms protected by thick leather gloves and iron gauntlets. It looked like he was giving a piggyback ride to his attacker, who repeatedly plunged a long knife into him, striking metal and not desired
skin.

  The woman dug her boot heels into his sides and wrapped her left arm around his head, trying to wrench it sideways to find a meaty spot to stab. Otto reached for his sword on the bridge, but the old woman yanked his head in the opposite direction, causing him to stumble toward the castle.

  Otto, who’d tucked his chin to his chest to better surround his vulnerable neck with chain mail, backhanded the woman’s face. Undeterred, she tightened her grip and swiped the dagger across his cheek, unleashing a hot, bloody spray.

  The knight screamed and knew he needed help removing this tick of a woman. He barreled into the castle and stood in the middle of the barbican hallway leading to the gatehouse. “Shoot! Shoot, damn you!”

  Arrows darted from loops spaced along the passage’s walls. While many clattered off stone, one arrow slipped through the woman’s ribs, and another jutted from her back. She screamed a mix of pain and fury.

  Only a few guards needed to defend the barbican: two on each side and two above. Anyone who stormed the castle would need to get through the portcullis, enter the barbican and then breach the gatehouse door to actually enter the castle’s courtyard. In the meantime they were easy prey for the barbican’s guards, who hid behind the walls and fired arrows through the loopholes. And that was only one method of defense.

  Otto knew this and positioned his back toward the loopholes, giving the guards clear shots. Pretty soon the woman’s back resembled a porcupine’s in reverse. She dropped from Otto, who tumbled toward the gatehouse door, screaming “Now!”

  The guards posted on the barbican’s roof made sure the big knight was clear. They always kept a caldron of boiling oil at the ready just in case someone attempted a siege. Finally they had a chance to use it. The two guards, their hands protected in leather, pushed the huge pot forward, tipping its gruesome black brew through a grating and splattering it onto Perchta, who was straining to yank arrows from her back. She squealed as the oil poured into every crevice it could find. She ran from the barbican and stopped on the drawbridge, the combined pain of the arrows and oil compelling her to pluck a few more from her body before making a full retreat.

  Otto burst from the barbican and shouldered into her, but it was like tackling a mountain. He bounced off and sat before her, confused and then fearful because of the arrow that she pointed an inch from his eye. All she needed to do was poke it forward to skewer his brain. How she’d composed herself enough to do this, while covered with burning oil and still resembling a pincushion, eluded Otto, but he did not cower and accepted his fate.

  “I’m getting in that castle, and I will walk over your dead body to do it,” she seethed through gritted teeth.

  She had brought back the bloody arrow just enough to drive it home when a thick black chain smashed sideways into her ribs, knocking her off the drawbridge, sending her screaming into the moat below.

  Instead of looking at a fearsome, malevolent hag, Otto now faced a giant, hairy devil standing at the foot of the drawbridge.

  “She cheated,” was all it said before whipping the chain at both pulleys and one by one knocking the throwing knives away from the links, freeing the drawbridge of obstruction.

  Otto, still sitting, kicked himself toward the castle and into the barbican, clear of the portcullis, and watched the rising wooden plank conceal the indescribable creature opposite the moat.

  Chapter Nine

  “What I find most amusing about the castle are the toilets,” Mumfred said to Beate and Heinrich, both of whom sat at one of the many long wooden trestle tables in the great hall, feasting on roast duck.

  The young lovebirds glanced at each other, not sure why the steward would direct the dinner conversation in this way.

  “I say that because I’m not sure how you peasants manage to live near your own waste, but the baron’s engineers devised it so that all of the castle’s twenty toilets flow directly into the moat. And the holes are cut small enough—and the toilets situated high enough off the ground—so that invaders cannot crawl their way inside.” He smiled, expecting the filthy images they would surely conjure to sap their appetites.

  Beate gulped her duck. “And all this while I thought that smell came from some of the people who escorted us into the castle.”

  “Ha!” Lord Karl walked behind Mumfred and clapped him on the back hard enough that the steward wobbled forward and made the table’s candle flames dance. “Good one, maiden. This place could use a little levity, given all that has transpired.” Karl turned to the steward. “Mummy, surely your position requires you to be mindful of other castle matters and not to follow around these good people of the village to make sure they don’t pocket the silverware.”

  Mumfred scowled at Beate, fuming that Karl’s intervention prevented him from reaming out the snippy peasant. “My lord, when you and your brother are ready to be fitted, please summon me and I shall arrange to have these two escorted to your—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Karl sat across from Beate and Heinrich with a plate of duck and vegetables and waved off Mumfred. “I’ll take care of things myself. Have some faith that everyone who enters the castle isn’t the scoundrel you suspect them to be.”

  Mumfred huffed away. Beate paid him no mind and marveled that a good chunk of the village—including its buildings—could stand inside the hall. She guessed it to measure one hundred and fifty feet long and seventy feet wide, with the hammer-beam ceiling at least that tall.

  “Normally I’d be sitting on the dais.” Karl glanced at a raised platform supporting a table at the far end of the hall. “But the baron is absent, as are other nobles. I don’t view it as slumming to be seen eating with peasants. My brother is a different story.” Karl waited for Heinrich and Beate to say something—then realized why they hadn’t. “You’ve never actually been inside the castle before, have you?”

  “No, my lord,” Beate said while looking at one of the many tapestries depicting knights atop horses in the midst of battle that lined the hall’s walls. Elsewhere were shields adorned with the baron’s coat of arms. Five fireplaces, some so large that people could walk into them, heated the room. A row of stained-glass windows stretched across the top of a long wall, allowing for sunshine to occasionally light the dais.

  “Castle living isn’t all that it’s made out to be, I can assure you,” Karl said in between mouthfuls of carrots. “It’s cold, damp and dark most of the time. Using torches to walk around at night does nothing but clog the hallways with smoke.”

  “But it’s safe here, my lord,” Beate said. “After seeing what happened to Gisela—my friend—that could not happen within these walls.”

  “The castle is its own little city, Beate—if I may be so bold.” Karl looked to Heinrich.

  “It’s her name, my lord.”

  “As I was saying, the castle’s work staff, when fully thrumming, exceeds two hundred, at the least. When the baron entertains, you’ll see dozens of cooks in the kitchen. You’ll see bottlers and butlers. And that’s just for providing food. The castle has its own carpenters, its own chaplain. Armorers—the blacksmith, you should know!” Karl motioned to Heinrich.

  “Of course.”

  “My point is we try to find the most honest people we can to work here. Many live in the village, many in the castle. But they’re not all saints. Jealousy, greed, envy—they don’t exclusively exist outside of the castle, waiting to breach the walls to corrupt its denizens. Immorality sleeps wherever man lays a pillow. I’m not trying to say that living in a castle is no better than in a hut. Clearly that’s bunk. Sometimes castles protect bad people from evil ones. But you still wouldn’t want anything to do with either of them.”

  Beate gulped water from a goblet, finishing. “My lord, respectfully, I’m not calling your brother evil or bad.”

  “He’s bad,” Karl interjected.

  “Very well.” She spoke cautiously. “That was th
e feeling I got when he viewed Gisela as an unpleasant mess rather than a murdered woman. What I’m saying is your father is a fair man to the peasants. What happens in the event that your brother succeeds him?”

  “My father is aware of my brother’s unkindness and what that might mean for the villagers and surrounding lords. The baron doesn’t seek to expand his reach. He’s content with what he has, and that has been instilled in us. And just in case the baron’s not here, he’s made it explicitly clear that Mumfred calls the shots—not Wilhelm.”

  Heinrich devoured his duck to bones, tired of the current conversation. “Your wedding, my lord. I promise you Beate will tailor you a fine outfit.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but if I may be so bold as to pull rank, my impending nuptials are not something I care to discuss. Let us just say I vehemently disagree with arranged marriages.”

  Beate finished her plate and pushed it toward the middle of the table. “Your brother is married, correct, my lord? How does he view it?”

  Karl rolled his eyes. “My brother and his wife are a perfect fit. They care not a wit about each other and neither gets upset about it. Each goes behind the other’s back at will. They dress nicely and show up at galas to keep up appearances, but beyond that, it’s a sham—what I fully expect my marriage to be. You two are lucky.”

  Beate reached under the table and squeezed Heinrich’s hand.

  “Now then, I see you are finished,” Karl said. “And I do not presume to rush your beau. So, please, Heinrich, stay here and eat while Beate fits me. I promise not to keep her long, and we will arrange to have you both sheltered here this evening.” He turned to Beate. “Your friend, Gisela, she made good headway on my brother’s outfit, so how about you get the unpleasant part out of the way and do what needs to be done to him, and then me? Is that acceptable?”

  “It is. Thank you, my lord.”