“Confess,” Bero whispered.
I imagined my fingers broken, joints mashed. You needed thumbs for everything.
“Stop,” I cried.
“The prisoner wishes to say something?” Schwarzburg said.
“Yes, I…did it. I’m a wizard.”
“Let it hereby be acknowledged that Max Nerds has confessed to be a sorcerer.” Schwarzburg’s voice oozed satisfaction. I didn’t care. All I could do was concentrate on the dull throbbing in my thumb knuckles, now purple and swollen like plumbs.
“On the first day of October, 1473, you shall burn on the stake to cleanse your soul or until the devil himself will take you to his world. And you, Squire Bero,” Schwarzburg continued, “shall accompany Max Nerds on his journey, just as you have accompanied him in life. May God have mercy on your souls.” Schwarzburg crossed himself, so did the vicarius and the men along the bench.
Numb and devoid of the last bit of energy, we followed the guard to our cell, as I tried calculating how many days we had until the first. It wouldn’t be long enough.
“What are we going to do now?” I asked. We leaned against opposite walls of our prison, trapped like the rats scurrying between us. My thumbs ached with every breath, but I was pretty sure they were intact except for some severe bruising.
“That is why you went to the inn earlier. To find the trinket?” Bero said.
I nodded. “It’s called a lighter.” I leaned forward, undid my right boot and fished out the item in question. I’d quickly dropped it when the chaos in the courtroom had distracted everyone. “I shouldn’t have brought it with me into the game,” I said, handing it to Bero. “Do you think it’s witchcraft?”
Bero sniffed and threw it in the air. “It is light. Something is inside.”
“Lighter fluid. It burns when you add a spark. Move your thumb across the wheel and hold down on the tab. That releases the fluid.”
Bero tried a few times until the flame took. In fright he tossed it into the straw. I giggled. “Careful. You’ll burn our house down.”
“Is it true?” Bero said as he retrieved the lighter and tried again. He held the flame and inspected the wall nearest him.
“Is what true?”
“That you tried to burn down the inn, attack Meister Sewolt.”
“What do you think?” I said. “Course not. The man is a fat liar. He’s probably being paid by Schwarzburg to say something like that.”
“Your travel from another time, the game you mentioned,” Bero said, his voice curiously calm. “It is true.”
I nodded. “I was born in 1998.” I looked at the low ceiling, calculating. “That’s 525 years from now.
“Impossible.”
“I wish. I shouldn’t have come. See where it got me. And you. It’s my fault. Now they’ll kill us both.”
“Did you bring other magic?” Bero said.
“Just a knife, the one I had last time. It’s back at Hanstein. Your medieval pants don’t have pockets.”
“What is a pocket?”
“A bag of sorts, sewn into your pants where you carry your belongings—instead of lugging a purse.”
Bero crawled across the cell and slumped beside me. “Tell me more about your world. Where do people live? What do they do? Are there squires and lords?”
I smiled. I was shaken to the bone, but here Bero finally believed me. “We live in stone buildings, much larger than the hut you shared with your family. We have carpets and leather couches to sit on. We don’t have outhouses, we use bathrooms.”
“To take baths?”
“Yeah, that and toilets.”
“What is toilets?”
“A kind of chair you sit on when you…got to shit. Then you hit a knob and water flushes it away.”
“Where does it go?”
“Through a pipe into the sewer. Anyway, a long duct that goes underground to a place far away where the water is cleaned again.” How did you explain hundreds of years of inventions and technological development in five minutes? Now that was impossible.
“You said you take to the sky? What does it mean?”
“We fly places.”
“With wings like birds?”
“Kind of. Except it’s like a wagon with huge wings.”
Bero met my gaze, his eyes dreamy. “I wish I could see that.”
“I wish I could show it to you.”
“Can you take me with you? To your world, I mean.”
I shook my head. The hopelessness of our situation came crashing back. “I don’t think I’ll make it back this time. Schwarzburg’s got us good. He won’t rest until we burn. I will die just the same as you.”
When I said it out loud, I realized that until now, this moment, I had always expected I’d escape. Make it out of the game, somebody rescuing me…us. I wasn’t afraid of dying as much—even if it meant I’d never see my mother again, nor Juliana—I was terrified of burning to death. It had to be excruciating to slowly cook, feel your feet go on fire.
I shuddered. I had to think of something else.
Anything.
Chapter 14
With every day I grew more tired. We were still getting mushy bread, even an occasional piece of gristled meat and once an apple. Schwarzburg wanted us strong before he killed us. But I couldn’t sleep. No matter how dark the cell and how exhausted I felt, my mind whirled, incapable of concentrating on one thing, fragments of memories and scenes coming and going at random.
Stupid things like a chocolate marble cake my mother had made for my birthday, Jimmy’s expression when we’d secretly watched his housekeeper take off her bra, Lord Werner on his chair in the great hall, flashing blue eyes, Ela washing her hair in the waterfall. My modern life mixed with my games, scenes merged into a glob of confusion.
The only reprieve came when Bero asked me about life in the twenty-first century. I loved watching his face, the fascination that brightened his eyes and made him shout with excitement.
Bero wanted to know everything. Even boring appliances like coffeemakers and washing machines everyone took for granted. Hilarious that someone finally believed me now that I was going to my death. What a sick joker God was. If he was even there.
“So you sit in this thing and it takes you to your tutors,” Bero said. He was leaning forward, his eyes dancing with curiosity. Judging by the bits of gray light filtering through the hole in the wall it was early morning. My legs ached from the lack of movement and I despised the way I stank.
You think you’d get used to the smells and the way your body feels without washing for weeks. The stickiness under your armpits, not to mention the lower parts. The prickly sensations where fleas make their meal.
It doesn’t work that way. Not when you’re used to clean clothes and daily showers.
I was scratching a lot now, tiny legs crawling along my scalp and under my arms. Of course, the more I rubbed the worse it got. The critters simply moved an inch to the side and went back to work.
“Yeah, it’s a public bus,” I said, trying to keep my focus on Bero instead of my itching body. “You sit inside and it takes you right here, to Heiligenstadt. That’s where my school is.”
“All children go to…school?”
“Yep.”
“At our age?”
“Yep.”
Bero shook his head. “Heiliger Wendelin. That must be quite a place. I would love to see that.”
I chuckled. A strange thought, taking Bero to my school.
“We missed the harvest festival,” he said quietly, his voice full of longing.
My mind traveled back to my first game when Bornhagen’s peasants had celebrated their one holiday, the wild singing and dancing, the minstrel’s live music. Bero would never see another party.
A key rattled inside the lock.
“Come,” the guard said. We scrambled to stand, my thighs weak as I climbed the stairs. My heart raced and I gulped air, but the shortness of breath remained. This was it. These were the last m
oments of my life. I really wanted to hug my mom. Dad, too. And Jimmy.
We walked outside, the light shooting darts into my eyeballs. Near the gallows where the skeletons had dangled in the wind, two wooden stakes waited. Branches, logs and pine boughs were stacked around them.
For the first time I noticed that the area in front of the building was an open plaza—a market of sorts with cobbled stones and a church across the way. The space was crowded with spectators. Peasants, kids, merchants and tradesmen pushed against the makeshift balustrade of ropes.
Every few feet a guard stood to keep the mob in line. They’d come to witness a spectacle.
I clambered on top of the firewood to get to the pole. The guard forced my arms back, but he was gentle as he mumbled something like merciful and repenting. As I faced the crowd, shouts rang out.
“Let the devil take them…”
“Cleanse their soul…”
“Sorcerers…”
A woman in a frayed gray smock pumped her fist. “Kill the heretics,” she yelled, the ‘s’ hissing through the five rotten teeth she had left. As if the woman had hit the start button, the mob exploded. Missiles of foul-smelling cabbage leaves, moldy apples and assorted garbage flew at us.
A rotten egg landed next to my feet, catapulting sulfurous slime on my pants. The mob began pushing against the ropes and guards as if they wanted to attack us.
I stared past them. These people were ignorant and being fed their beliefs by the church and the likes of Schwarzburg. I glanced at Bero who stood erect and kept his head up. That’s it. Show them how tough you are.
Another sentry approached with a bucket and began ladling something across the branches and logs. I smelled it. Oil. It would make the fire blaze hotter and burn our bodies more thoroughly. Schwarzburg was leaving nothing to chance. Strange that he wasn’t out here to bathe in his glory.
Some oil sprayed on my shoes. Just as well, the sooner I burned, the sooner it was over. I swallowed, but my throat had turned to sawdust as I fought the panic in my heart. My right knee quivered and banged against the pole.
Bero was going through a similar phase. His arms trembled and his fingers opened and closed. Beads of sweat lined his lip among the soft stubble of his first beard. He’d never see it grow.
I fought down tears. To my surprise it was harder to watch my friend than deal with my own terror.
Across the way the church doors opened and the vicarius from the courtroom strode toward us. I only saw it because the crowd quieted and parted into curtsies. The churchman placed himself with his back to the courthouse, well away from the primed bonfire.
“We have gathered here to fulfill God’s judgment,” he addressed the throng. “To stop the heretics who poison our lands and our souls. Who steal our children while they are sleeping, who blaze our crops with drought and bring floods to our homes. Let the fire”—here he crossed himself for effect—“cleanse their souls so these godless conjurers may be spared the depth of hell. Let them burn now instead of for eternity. Let us pray.”
He bowed his head and I marveled at the cleanliness of his hands and the whiteness of his long cloak that swirled around him like a dress, the heavy gold ring on his pinky. The man had likely never worked an hour in his life. Did he actually believe what he said?
He sure looked well fed compared to the peasants before him, his cheeks and double chin bloated with something other than water and bread. I’d never find out. I’d never see my family again. Nor Juliana, Jimmy or Emma.
A new wave of dread took over my arms and legs, and my heart accelerated. Cold sweat made my hands damp. It was a rather mild day, yet my limbs shook as if I were standing naked in a snowdrift.
I’d sworn to be strong and not show them how scared I was. But my body thought otherwise. It didn’t care what I wanted. It knew I’d soon dissolve in unmentionable pain.
Through the haze of my whirling mind I heard voices. Somewhere far in the distance. I tried to concentrate, but the vicarius was still praying, his voice a sonorous hum. Beyond the market square screams rang out, followed by metal clanging. A woman shrieked, her voice piercing the quiet of the outdoor mass.
The vicarius stumbled in his prayer as the clip clop of horses reverberated between buildings and grew louder. Now it seemed to surround us, coming from all directions.
I gawked past the bowing spectators when twenty or so riders burst onto the market. They jostled and reined their horses, nearly crushing the mob assembled around the execution.
“What is the meaning of this disturbance?” the vicarius shouted, his voice indignant. The crowd mumbled, rubbernecking back and forth between the churchman and the soldiers, unsure whether to proceed praying or flee. Dressed in full chainmail, the knights wore breast and leg plates and closed helmets, wielding long swords as if they were mere wooden toys.
It was impossible to determine who they were and I didn’t recognize the crest on their armor. All I knew was that we were out of time. Maybe these men belonged to Schwarzburg and wanted to entertain themselves with a barbecue.
A guard appeared from the courthouse, a torch blazing in his hand. One flick with his hand and it would be over.
Before the men could speak, two more riders approached. They rounded the crowd, which milled nervously beneath the huge warhorses snorting and scraping their hoofs across the cobblestone.
“Who is in charge?” One of them said as he pushed closer.
“We do not know, My Lord,” the leader of the riders said. It sounded tinny through the slits of his helmet.
I wouldn’t have cared had they discussed flying to Mars, because my attention was on the guard who carried the torch. He stood no more than ten feet from our burn piles, watching the knights. A simple toss would take care of things.
“What is the meaning of this? You are interfering with God’s judgment,” the vicarius cried again. He raised a hand as if to fend off the host with one arm.
“Says who?” the newly arrived knight said. “We are searching for Schwarzburg. Get him for me.”
One of the local guards disappeared inside the courthouse. When I looked at the huge horse and the knight on top, my brain exploded into firework.
“My Lord,” was all I managed, before my voice fizzled.
It was enough. The knight turned in his saddle to look at us. Then he lifted his visor, blue eyes flaming inside the shadow of his helmet.
“Max Nerds?” Lord Werner shouted. “Squire Bero? What in God’s name are you doing in Heiligenstadt?”
Bero mumbled something unintelligible as he began to strain against his ropes.
“Cut them free,” Werner barked. A soldier jumped off his horse and climbed across the wood. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Schwarzburg’s guard throw his torch toward the burn pile before he raced toward the courthouse. He never made it.
Several things happened at once.
Werner’s companion who turned out to be Konrad, Bero’s master, hurled a knife toward the torchbearer who sank to the ground with a gurgle and stopped moving. Several swordsmen got off their horses and entered the building. Werner jumped down and with a kick that would’ve made any soccer team proud, hurled the torch toward the dispersing crowd.
Still, an ember near the outer edge caught. With a whoosh the fire burst, igniting an instant inferno. It sucked so much air that I gasped. In a split second we were surrounded by burning, crackling wood, hurling a thousand degrees of heat our way. Bero and I, relieved of our ties, stood staring in shock as the flames grew and began licking our feet like hungry animals.
“This way!” I yelled. Behind us the fire was smallest, the flames having to travel farther. I grabbed Bero’s arm and jumped. We landed on the edge of the blazing logs. After another leap I flung Bero to the ground to snuff out the burning fibers on his pants. The soldier in his heavy gear was slower. He cried with anguish, the soles of his leather boots smoldering and emitting acrid smoke.
“Water,” Bero yelled. One of the soldiers hurri
ed away to the town well while I helped the man yank off what was left of his shoes. As we limped farther away the poles exploded, blazing flames shooting twenty feet in the air. A cloud of black smoke billowed above like a dancing skyscraper.
I began to tremble all over again, the relief of having survived the fire turning my knees to mush. The hairs on my arms were singed and my throat scratchy, but we were all right. Helping each other up, I found myself face-to-face with Lord Werner. I was four inches taller now.
“My Lord,” I stumbled. “You saved our lives.”
“So it appears.” Werner nodded at the firestorm. “And not a moment too soon.” I marveled at the intensity of the blue eyes. I’d forgotten just how powerful Werner’s gaze was. “We must haste. We will assemble later and you can enlighten me about your travels. And you, Squire Bero.”
“My Lord, shall we seize the priest for questioning?” Konrad asked. The vicarius was hurrying away, his white gown bright against the gray stone of his church.
“Leave him. Get these men a horse,” Werner said. Scared of the swords, horses and commanding soldiers, the mob had all but disappeared. The courthouse door opened and a dozen men spilled onto the plaza followed by Werner’s soldiers followed who barked commands and poked their prisoners into their soft behinds. I recognized several of them from our day in court.
“Off you go,” the knights shouted. “Quick. Make haste or we will show you.” He approached Werner who was back on his horse. “My Lord, the Duke fled. These people likely helped him escape.”
“Then we shall leave at once,” Werner said. “And take these fine men with us. They may become useful.”
The prisoners—administrators and merchants—the same men who’d demanded our death jostled against each other, some falling or stumbling as they were pushed into the midst of Werner’s host.
“Where are you taking us?” one of them cried. I recognized him as one of the men who’d presided on the platform during the trial. Ignoring him, the soldiers drove their prisoners down the plaza. Bero and me, sharing a horse, followed. Neither of us spoke, still too shocked to believe we had actually survived.
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