The Beast Within

by Cory Barclay

  Hugo didn’t know why Ulrich was being so . . . respectful of this prisoner. Nothing like his behavior with the other one. It still amazed Hugo how Ulrich could turn his sadism on and off like a switch—one minute inflicting incredible pain, the next thanking the man for his insult.

  “What are you waiting for?” Karstan asked Ulrich. “Should I bring you your tools?”

  The torturer shrugged. “I don’t think we’ll learn anything from this one that we won’t learn easier from the one next door.”

  “Are you sure?” Karstan asked.

  Ulrich turned to William. “Do you know where Dieter Nicolaus is?”

  William shook his head.

  “Even though he took your family?”

  “I forced him to take my family,” William said, shifting in his seat. “And told him not to tell me where they were.”

  He’s lying, Hugo thought, noticing the big man’s changed demeanor, how his body tensed. How could Ulrich not see that?

  But he saw no reason to give up the man.

  Though Karstan did. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “You’re saying you were prepared to never see your family again? That’s not . . .” he turned to Ulrich. “How can that be?”

  William answered for the torturer. “You wouldn’t understand, boy. Do you have a family? A man will do the unimaginable to ensure his family’s safety. We had fair warning from Dieter Nicolaus that you were on your way. It was simply a matter of survival. Save me or my family? The choice is . . . no choice at all.”

  Ulrich nodded. “Well said, Herr Edmond.”

  But Karstan shook his head. “Do something to him, Ulrich. I don’t believe this nonsense.” He jabbed his finger into the man’s thick chest. “This man knew where he was going. The priest must have planned where they’d meet—don’t you see that? He didn’t go underground to get caught . . . he went there to escape!”

  William stared at Karstan’s finger. “Despite these straps, boy, point that finger in my chest again and I’ll bite it off.”

  Ulrich chuckled. “Quiet, Karstan. Even if you’re correct, I can’t see myself breaking a determined family man like this. And don’t try to tell me what to do. Remember who holds your freedom . . .”

  Karstan grunted and Hugo couldn’t help but smile.

  “Besides,” Ulrich added, “like I said, we can find out where they were going through Jerome Penderwick over there.” He nodded at William. “Thank you for your time, Herr Edmond. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

  William nodded. “You’re just doing your job.”

  As Ulrich passed Hugo on his way back to Jerome’s cell, Hugo touched his arm and leaned in. “Why were you so . . . kind to him?”

  Ulrich sighed. “William Edmond built the walls around Bedburg, son. When the Protestants first attacked years ago, who do you think manned the city’s defense by erecting a makeshift palisade? That man helped defend the city more than any soldier. He also built my house. Do you understand?”

  Hugo’s cheeks grew hot. He looked away, then nodded. He understood. And now he felt even worse about himself. Humiliating a hero of the city.

  What kind of man have I become?

  Looking around at the chipped walls of the jailhouse, the grimy, blood-spattered stones and walls, the swollen misshapen face of Jerome Penderwick, it suddenly hit Hugo.

  We are the villains here.

  It was the first time he’d seen himself that way. When he’d been running through the streets of Bedburg thieving, he hadn’t seen that as evil, just desperate. When he’d traveled to Trier and Tomas had ordered the deaths of all those people, he’d excused himself as not knowing about it in advance, that he would have tried preventing it if he’d known. Even when he killed Severin, shoving him off the cliff, there’d been good reason: the man had murdered his friend Klemens. And even with that rationalization, he’d still begun feeling tormented about killing him as the months went by. An evil person would never feel that.

  But now . . . now he had no excuses. He worked for Heinrich Franz, as his emissary and regent. A man who just today had killed two people for no reason, without remorse.

  And here he now stood, watching the torture of two more men, not caring about them in the least, wanting just answers.

  I’ve become Ulrich.

  Worst still, I’ve become Heinrich.

  He wandered from the cell in a foggy haze, his mind reeling over his epiphany. “Where are you going?” he heard someone say.

  “I-I don’t . . .” shaking his head, he began climbing the stairs to the lobby, then remembered something.

  “I’m going to House Charmagne,” he said, turning back down toward the cells. “I nearly forgot. The wedding is tonight.”

  “The wedding?” Karstan asked. “Between whom?”

  Hugo ignored him, looking over at Ulrich. “Remember to be there tonight, Ulrich. Heinrich wants you to bring five men with you.”

  Ulrich waved him away, now busy working on Jerome, who’d just woken up.

  As Hugo stepped outside the stinking jailhouse, the last thing he heard were the horrific, spine-chilling howls of evil crushing innocence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SYBIL

  Sybil sat outside Claire and Leon Durand’s house, hands folded on her lap. It was midday and a relatively warm afternoon in the shire. Claire sat in a chair on the other side of the patio, cradling Rose. Sybil turned and gave her a tired smile.

  Daxton Wallace walked up to the porch dressed in his best leathers, like he was going out pirating. When he reached Sybil, he stepped out of the way to reveal two figures behind him, a middle-aged woman and a toddler.

  “This is Kaitlin Baker and her daughter, Maybelle,” he told Sybil.

  Kaitlin was frail looking, with sunken cheeks and a large forehead. Her daughter looked much like her, but with squinty blue eyes that had a hard time focusing on Sybil. Hiding behind her mother, she had her arms wrapped around the woman’s thighs.

  Kaitlin put her hand on her daughter’s head. “Thank you for seeing us, Madam Diviner,” she began, bowing her head.

  “It’s my pleasure, Frau Baker,” Sybil said warmly, smiling. “What ails you?”

  “It is my daughter, May,” Kaitlin said, running her hand through Maybelle’s light-blonde hair. “She may not look it, but she’s sick. She’s had a cough and leaky eyes for days and complains her eyesight is getting worse. Things she once saw like a hawk she describes now as blurry.” The woman’s eyes grew wet as she spoke.

  Sybil leaned forward in her chair and gazed at the little girl, motioning for her to come forward. With a little coaxing, the girl released her grip from her mother’s thighs and nervously stepped forward. Her big eyes stared at Sybil like pools of water, unblinking, a deep frown set on her face.

  “Am I blurry to you now, Miss May?” Sybil asked gently.

  The little girl slowly nodded. “Yes, Sacred One.”

  “Please, you can call me Beele,” Sybil said.

  That brought a tentative, gap-toothed grin from the girl.

  Sybil returned the smile, then looked up at Kaitlin. “Her eyes don’t appear particularly wet, madam.”

  “It comes and goes.”

  “Is it typically worse at any certain time of the day?”

  Kaitlin nodded. “During night, ma’am.”

  Sybil nodded, stroking her chin. She turned to Daxton. “Go inside and get me a handful of bilberries, please.”

  “Right away, ma’am,” he sighed, his tone less than enthusiastic. A moment later, he returned, handing Sybil a small pouch.

  Sybil asked the little girl, “Have you ever had bilberries, May?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “They’re a fruit—not too tart, but not too sweet, either. You should like them.”

  The girl’s mother looked puzzled. “How will eating berries help my girl’s sight, madam?”

  Sybil weighed the pouch in her hand. “They are very good at fighting infections and restor
ing humors. They can cure bowel problems and poor circulation. I’m hoping that with better circulation young May’s eyesight will improve.” Sybil had learned this from the local herbalist. Although she was just repeating what the medicine-maker had told her, Sybil’s words seemed to carry considerably more “spiritual” weight lately, given her new public image as the Pale Diviner. She handed the pouch to Kaitlin. As the little girl took it, Sybil told her mother, “Take just three or four a day, so she isn’t over-sugared. And if they don’t seem to help in a week, come back and we can try something a bit more bold.”

  Kaitlin smiled and curtsied to Sybil, then Daxton. “Thank you very much, my lady and lord,” she said, walking off holding her daughter’s hand.

  Over the next hour, a half dozen more people—all patiently waiting just down the hill—were brought up one by one by Daxton for Sybil to tend to. After a while, Rowaine appeared at the doorway. “Is that the last of them?” she asked, walking onto to the porch with a slight limp. She cursed when she saw even more people congregating down the hill where a new line was forming. “God be damned, this is never-ending.”

  Sybil sighed. “How are our supplies doing, Dax?”

  “We’re running rather thin on your pine bark tinctures and berries. We’ll have to fetch more from the market soon. I could go about it in the morning. But you should have enough to last a few more visitors, depending on what ails them.”

  “Right,” Sybil said, waving her hand. “Send up the next one, please.”

  Ever since the “Rowaine Miracle,” word had spread quickly of Sybil’s magic touch. By the time she’d returned from King’s Lynn with Georg and Daxton—after securing Reeve Bailey’s shipment via Corvin Carradine—townsfolk had begun camping near Claire’s house, waiting for the miracle-worker to cast her magic. At first Sybil had been baffled, not sure how she could possibly help all these sickly folk. But she soon grew accustomed to—even enjoying—her new duties.

  This was now how she started her days: sitting on Claire’s porch helping those in need. It gave her purpose, though sometimes she did feel a bit of a fraud. The truth was she had no idea whether any of her recommendations really worked. She knew she wasn’t a healer, though the countryfolk obviously thought otherwise, treating her like a saint.

  It was all so totally foreign to Sybil—being admired and idolized. And she knew she couldn’t let it go to her head. In fact, she’d already instructed Rowaine to stop her at the first sign of either sounding ridiculous or taking herself too seriously.

  But for now, she’d accepted her new role as the shire’s Pale Diviner.

  And she was fortunate to have the rest of her group there supporting her. Rowaine bought the goods from the marketplace and, though she knew little about the items she purchased, she had at least spent time traveling with the surgeon, Jerome Penderwick, so had some knowledge of medicine and remedies. But not much.

  And Daxton was her presenter and peace-keeper, directing each person to her in an organized fashion while keeping any disruption around the house to a minimum.

  Georg was the only one not much involved, spending most of his time away from the house working on his tavern. Since Reeve Bailey had given him the go-ahead to build, granting him his license, he’d gotten started straight away. He’d made Claire’s husband, Leon, his chief architect—the same role he’d played when Dieter’s church was built—and on most days five to ten other farmers would come around to help.

  Daxton was once again walking up to the porch, but this time with a different look on his face. “Look who I found,” he said in a low voice, stepping aside to show the person behind him.

  Sybil’s cheeks flushed and her heart fluttered.

  The dashingly handsome young captain of the Silver Sun, Corvin Carradine, smiled back at her.

  “Guy Ericsson was found dead yesterday,” Corvin began, his face solemn. They were in Claire’s living room—Corvin, Sybil, Daxton, Georg, and Rowaine—the women seated, the men standing by the door. “In King’s Lynn, under . . . suspicious circumstances. Floating near the docks. At first, they suspected suicide, until they recovered the body and found his boots filled with rocks.”

  Daxton let out an awkward chuckle. “Someone wanted to make it look like suicide, but failed to puncture his lungs, so he floated up despite his weighted feet.” He turned to Rowaine, surprised to see the color had left her face. “Are you okay, Row?”

  She closed her eyes. “I’m fine. Just makes me think of Dominic, is all.”

  Dominic had been Rowaine’s shipmate, a sweet boy who—after a savage sexual assault—had jumped ship, killing himself. Rowaine had dispatched the boy’s attacker, the captain of the ship at the time, with a commensurate level of her own savagery.

  “Don’t do that to yourself,” Daxton told her.

  Georg returned to the subject at hand, asking Corvin, “Do you have any idea who killed him?”

  Corvin nodded. “Mysterious death, body in the water . . . I have an inkling. Actually, there were a great many people who likely wanted him dead, but none more than the Hanseatic League. He betrayed them and they do not take that lightly.”

  “So it was proved he was stealing from the League?” Sybil asked.

  Corvin sucked in his breath. “Proved is a strong word, my lady. ‘Highly suggested’ might be a better way of putting it.”

  “And might you have been the one to ‘highly suggest’ such a thing?” Georg asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “I told you that was my plan, didn’t I?”

  Georg nodded. “And why have you come here to tell us?”

  “Well . . . Guy’s death brings up some pertinent issues facing the League’s work in King’s Lynn.” He angled his head. “Specifically, that we currently have no replacement.”

  “Why should we care about that?” Sybil asked. “That man tried to have us arrested and killed. Traitor or not, he was still an arm of the Hanseatic League.”

  “Do you mind what happens to Reeve Bailey’s textile exports, my lady?” Corvin asked Sybil.

  “Of course,” Georg interjected from the doorway. “Without those goods arriving in Germany, Bailey could revoke my building license and cancel my tavern.”

  “Then you’ll want the merchandise to arrive where it’s supposed to. And without a shipping man in King’s Lynn”—Corvin shrugged nonchalantly—“who knows where the goods may end up.”

  “Again,” Sybil said, her voice rising, “why are you telling us in particular? To scare us? To blackmail?”

  Georg stepped forward. “Yes. What’s your game here?”

  Corvin threw his hands out wide. “No, no, nothing like that, my friends. I assure you, I come as an ally.”

  “Then out with it, man,” Daxton said, nudging his chin toward Georg. “Before we set this big fellow here on you.”

  “I am here to offer my services—”

  Everyone in the room groaned, then began grumbling.

  Corvin waved the group quiet. “It’s nothing shifty, my friends!” He pointed to Georg. “I am here to offer this man a position in King’s Lynn. Under the express permission of the Hanseatic League . . . as their formal representative. We wish for Georg Sieghart to be our new shipping representative there.”

  Georg raised his eyebrows, pointing to himself. “Me?”

  “How do they even know who he is?” Sybil asked.

  “He has no experience doing anything like that,” Daxton added. “And what about his tavern?”

  Joining with the others, Georg asked, “You’re asking me to be a smuggler?”

  “We are a reputable organization, Herr Sieghart,” Corvin replied. “I wouldn’t call you a petty smuggler.”

  “I didn’t call myself petty . . .” Georg mumbled.

  “You would be in charge of overseeing all goods imported and exported to our warehouse. In return, you’ll have every trade route and secret associate of the League at your disposal. It’s a lucrative position, my friend. One you should not t
ake lightly.”

  Sybil stood from her chair. “But why Georg? What has he done to gain the League’s favor?”

  Corvin smiled. “I personally spoke with the higher authorities, my lady, on his behalf.” He offered her a little bow.

  “You trust me enough to give me such responsibility?” Georg scoffed. “You’re either stupid or mad.”

  Clearly, the conversation was not going the way Corvin had hoped. Nervous now, he said to Georg, “I trust you, yes, and in turn the League trusts you. It’s as simple as that. And because they hold me responsible for Guy’s death, I must be the one to find a suitable replacement.”

  “And if I say no?”

  Corvin’s eyes stared deeply into Georg’s. “Don’t say no, Georg.”

  Georg looked at the man for a moment, then asked, “Why not?”

  Corvin sighed, scratching his cheek. He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. After a pause, his words just spewed out in one long breath. “Because the League knows I’m down here proposing my nomination to you, and if you decline they’ll know I’ve told you too much, and people aren’t supposed to know too much about our affairs.” He inhaled slowly, then exhaled, adding, “Now do you see?”

  Sybil stepped toward Corvin. “Are you saying our lives are in danger if Georg says no?”

  “I’m saying . . . yes, that is a possibility.” Another long pause followed, no one wanting to speak first. So Corvin continued, turning back to Georg. “Look, you were the one who voted against having me killed when you, and she, and your carpenter friend here, first boarded the Silver Sun.”

  “Captain, not ‘carpenter friend,’” Daxton corrected him.

  “My apologies,” Corvin said, glancing over at Daxton before continuing with Georg. “I respect a man who does something like that, especially when the alternative is so much easier. You chose to trust me, or at least you chose to see how far my trust would take you. And I admire that. It’s the kind of resolve we wish to see in our associates.”

  Georg pressed on. “What makes you think I won’t steal from you?”