The Beast Within

by Cory Barclay

  Georg pulled his long dagger from his belt. It was about half the length of Ulrich’s sword. He spread his arms wide, shifted into an attack position, then took another step forward.

  Ulrich snarled and Georg charged.

  The horrific clashing of steel echoed as their weapons met—Ulrich slashing down, Georg bringing his weapon up to block it.

  As their battle got underway, Ulrich’s strength pushed Georg back with each blow of his sword. But Georg was faster—surprisingly swift for a man his size. Deftly, he weaved his long dagger in and out of Ulrich’s defenses in quick succession, nearly catching the torturer off-guard several times. Finally, Ulrich recoiled and swung his blade horizontally, trying to take off Georg’s head. Georg ducked low and stabbed Ulrich in the leg, a shallow thrust that barely drew blood.

  Ulrich growled loudly and shot out his bare fist, catching Georg under the chin, snapping his neck back and sending him reeling backward.

  “Father!” Rowaine cried, stepping forward and unholstering her guns. But the two combatants were moving too fast. A shot at Ulrich could easily kill Georg instead.

  Ulrich clutched the hilt of his blade with both hands and lunged forward, thrusting the steel toward Georg’s heart. Still stunned from the blow to his chin, Georg managed to focus just in time to bob away from Ulrich’s thrust, then Ulrich tried to backhand him with the sword, but again missed.

  As both men regained their balance, Georg flanked the torturer and stabbed quickly, the tip of his dagger nicking Ulrich’s hip bone, painful but not debilitating. Ulrich cried out, then, teeth clenched, stepped forward into Georg’s guard, grabbing the back of the man’s neck and bringing his sword up, underhanded, for a gut kill.

  But Georg was quicker. He jabbed his dagger down, its point cleanly piercing through Ulrich’s wrist and coming out the other side. As the dagger blade remained firmly embedded in Ulrich’s wrist, the jailer’s grip weakened around his sword, causing it to barely puncture Georg’s belly.

  Ulrich tried vainly to force the sword deeper into Georg’s stomach but Georg just grimaced and wrestled it away, stepping back with Ulrich’s blade. Ulrich, now weaponless, lurched his body forward, trying to catch Georg off balance but Georg, blood seeping from his stomach, swept Ulrich’s sword in a quick overhand motion, the tip tearing across Ulrich’s throat as the torturer stepped forward, his momentum adding to the strike.

  Blood and cartilage poured out of Ulrich’s neck as his eyes bulged and his color faded. He fell forward with a heavy thud, Georg’s dagger still protruding from his wrist, and didn’t move.

  Georg grunted, then dropped the sword and clutched at his bleeding stomach, going down on one knee as Rowaine rushed to his side. No one came to Ulrich’s aid.

  Sybil ran for the gate. Pushing open the jailhouse door, she sped down the stairs, calling out for her husband, “Dieter? Dieter!”

  No one responded.

  She dashed through the first hall, then barreled down the second. As she passed different jail cells along the way, a small form came forward, clutching the bars of one of the end cells.

  “Is that . . . Sybil Griswold?” the shadow asked.

  Sybil jumped back in alarm. “Who’s there?”

  A small white smile gleamed through the shadows. Though the man looked half dead, Sybil recognized his bearded face.

  “Rolf Anders,” the man began to explain, then with a wistful grin, added, “Former regent of Heinrich’s countryside estate.” Seeing Sybil’s serious expression, he stopped his introduction.

  “Where’s my husband?” Sybil asked, skipping pleasantries.

  “Sybil?” another voice called from the next cell. Sybil stepped back to see Ava Hahn standing by her bars.

  “Oh my,” yet another woman yelled. “I hope you brought that damn fiery mermaid with you!” Sybil recognized the voice as Aellin’s, the wench from the tavern who had helped her find Odela many months earlier.

  “My, my,” Rolf chuckled. “Quite the reunion.”

  Sybil turned back to him. “Please, where’s my husband, old man?”

  His smile vanished. “Heinrich Franz left with him less than ten minutes ago. In his carriage. I heard them leave.”

  Sybil cursed under her breath. “Where?”

  “To House Charmagne, of course.” Rolf seemed to shrink from Sybil’s gaze. “I must warn you, my lady . . . I believe your husband is in dire peril.”

  Sybil sighed. She heard footsteps coming down the steps from the lobby. Corvin appeared with keys in his hand, presumably taken from Ulrich.

  Once Sybil and Corvin had freed Rolf, Ava, and Aellin, they all hurried for the stairs, then out the jailhouse door into the night.

  When they reached the gate, they stopped abruptly.

  Tomas Reiner and nearly fifty soldiers stood between them and the large mass of tavern patrons and townsfolk, blocking their path. Though the mob of citizens was at least twice the size of Reiner’s group, the soldiers had much deadlier weapons, so the crowd kept their distance.

  “I cannot let you pass, I’m afraid,” Tomas declared to everyone. Addressing Sybil’s group trying to leave the jail, he said, “Not you,” then turning to the mob in the street, “nor the rest of you.”

  “Shit,” Sybil muttered. She whispered to Corvin, “Do you have anything to say?”

  Corvin cleared his throat, the color in his face draining. Carefully eyeing the swords and rifles of Tomas’ men, he slowly stepped forward. “I s-suppose I can think of something . . .” he whispered, trailing off as he reached the front of the group.

  Loud, running footsteps interrupted the moment. A town guardsman, out of breath, ran up to Tomas. “C-Commander, we have trouble!” the man cried, thrusting a thumb behind him.

  Tomas shot a dangerous look at the man.

  “An army’s reached our southern gate,” the messenger told him. “I don’t know how they got there without warning, but they’re there, my lord. Sure as day.”

  The soldiers in Tomas’ ranks began mumbling to one another, relaxing their poised weapons. Suddenly there were more important things to worry about than the peasants in the street or these escaping prisoners.

  Salvatore came up beside Sybil. “It can’t be the army from Cologne . . . they shouldn’t be here for hours. I saw their masses in the spiritworld, they can’t be here before daybreak, at the least.”

  Sybil rolled her eyes. As much as she liked Salvatore, she wasn’t going to rely on his “spiritworld” at the moment.

  “Dammit,” Tomas spat. To the messenger, he asked, “Can you tell where they come from?”

  The soldier shrugged. “Perhaps from Bergheim, my lord.”

  Tomas frowned, then looked long and hard at Sybil. Though she may have imagined it, she thought she saw Tomas give her an almost imperceptible nod, before turning to his soldiers.

  “Let’s go, men. Rouse the garrison! We have enemies at our back door!”

  And with that, they were gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  HEINRICH

  “How long have you been working with Tomas, priest?”

  Dieter, sitting across from Heinrich in the carriage, didn’t answer—his face a mask of absolute blankness, no expression, complete indifference, as if he hadn’t heard the question.

  Each stared at the other, both of them gently swaying from side to side as the coach bounced along the country roads outside Bedburg. After a long silence, filled in only by the clopping of hooves along the uneven road and Felix’s occasional shouts to the horses, Heinrich finally looked away. He had no idea what was going through the priest’s mind.

  He sighed and tried again. “I know that Tomas Reiner, my own garrison commander, is ‘Mord’—the writer of the notes your resistance group has been receiving.”

  At that, Dieter flinched slightly, a twitch at the corner of his eye, but enough of a tell to make Heinrich notice.

  So he doesn’t know who it is . . .

  But even if Dieter didn’t know wh
o had authored the notes, he could still be of value. He was, after all, a recognizable figure in his own right. Some in town even considered him a saint of sorts. A rescuer of the laymen. A Robin Hood figure.

  Of course Heinrich didn’t buy any of that. To him, Dieter was just a man thrust into a dangerous situation doing the best he could.

  If it were up to him, knowing what he knows now and where it has gotten him, I doubt he would have agreed to become this champion of the weak.

  “When did you first receive Tomas’ messages?” Heinrich asked.

  This time Dieter answered. “Months ago,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t remember the exact date.”

  Not much, but it was something. Heinrich tried to keep him talking. “I also know that the army at Bedburg’s doorstep belongs to Gebhard von Truchsess,” he told Dieter. “Don’t bother denying it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You won’t escape from this,” Heinrich said.

  Dieter gazed into Heinrich’s eyes. “What do you want with me, Heinrich?”

  “Information. I found out from Hedda’s ledger that Gebhard has an army and had been conspiring with Baron Ludwig before his . . . untimely death.” Jarred by a particularly brutal bump, Heinrich shifted in his seat. “And that is where you come in. I associate with Archbishop Ernst, you see—”

  “Yes. It is well known that you are the archbishop’s lackey.”

  Heinrich smirked. He was getting under Dieter’s skin. That usually brought results. He continued. “Ernst and Gebhard are dire enemies, have been since the Cologne War broke out. But I’m sure you’re aware of that, too.”

  Dieter said nothing.

  “With Gebhard being a Calvinist leader, and yourself being such a prominent Protestant in Bedburg, I find it hard to believe you weren’t working together. You seek the same ends, after all.”

  “I seek to save people from your viciousness and tyranny. That is all. Gebhard seeks a throne of lies.”

  “So you claim that you’re not allies?”

  “I sought his help once. He refused me.”

  “A shame.”

  “I thought the same.”

  Heinrich rested one leg over the other, trying to act relaxed, though his mind was awash with many thoughts.

  If that’s true, then my plan could be foiled before it even begins . . .

  No, I doubt this priest would admit to his treason just from my asking.

  “I don’t believe you, that you’re not working together,” Heinrich challenged.

  But by now, Dieter had guessed Heinrich’s plan. “If you propose to hold me as bait over the former archbishop,” Dieter said, tilting his head to the side, “I’m afraid you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

  “So it wasn’t your idea to confine yourself to my prison in hopes that Gebhard would rescue you once he took Bedburg?”

  “Gebhard wants Bedburg so that he can control more territory around Cologne. That’s always been his goal, as you well know. So, yes, it crossed my mind that if he entered Bedburg, the Protestants you jailed might be freed. But me, personally? I’m not that important to him.”

  “I doubt you would abandon your son for such a slim hope at freedom, priest.”

  Dieter scowled. “Don’t speak of my son, you devil.”

  Heinrich smiled. “I think you were given more of a guarantee than you admit. That if Bedburg fell to his army, you’d be freed.”

  Dieter shrugged. “Think what you want. I’m telling you, he won’t go out of his way for me.”

  “If you mean he won’t travel all the way out to House Charmagne to free you, then, yes, I agree. He has more important things to focus on.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, I grant you that it was a courageous wager on your part—risking your freedom and life for the lives of your friends. I admire you for that. But it won’t succeed.” Heinrich’s gray eyes darkened. “You may have friends in Bedburg—even in the lowest depths of the dungeons and jails. But where we’re going now, you have no allies.”

  Dieter shrugged again, his mask of indifference on again.

  And it riled Heinrich. His plan was to scare Dieter into talking, like he’d done to so many others. But this man was a hard nut to crack. Fearless. Impossible to decipher. Someone who could easily be hiding more tricks up his sleeve.

  “If you think I’m defenseless against Gebhard’s siege,” Heinrich said, “you are mistaken.”

  The carriage began to slow. Dieter leaned toward the coach window and peeled back the curtain, telling Heinrich, “So you plan to fight Gebhard? I am surprised. Here I thought you’d just hand him your seat.”

  The sarcasm irritated Heinrich. The man could get under his skin as well. “Archbishop Ernst awarded me an army to fight Gebhard on his behalf,” Heinrich said.

  “Congratulations,” Dieter answered, turning away from the window.

  Heinrich touched his mustache and thought.

  Who will lead my army if not Tomas Reiner? Since I’m certain he is my betrayer, I must see to his end promptly. But who will that leave in command of his garrison? Perhaps I should send messages to Ernst and his allies. Perhaps Ulrich is worthy for the job.

  Both of them pitched forward when the carriage came to an abrupt stop. They’d reached Heinrich’s mansion. Felix opened the coach door for his master and offered his hand. Heinrich waved it off, then stepped out on his own. He stretched deeply and took in the night. It was dark and chilly, only a few stars showing.

  Dieter followed him through the large front door, the warmth from the interior torchlights instantly soothing his chilled bones. Heinrich rubbed his gloved hands together as he led Dieter down the foyer.

  “Where do you want me?” Dieter asked him from behind.

  “By my side, priest,” Heinrich replied without turning around. “I won’t have you leaving my sight.”

  Dieter must have figured he’d be locked away, so he wasn’t quite sure what to make of this development. But he knew enough about the man to be suspicious, not grateful. When they entered the dining area, Beauregard was preparing the table with plates and silverware.

  Heinrich snapped his fingers. “Beauregard!”

  The butler stopped, standing ramrod straight.

  “Go check on Lady Lucille for me,” Heinrich instructed. “I haven’t heard from her in some time. I’d like to sup with her and my Godly friend here. Perhaps we can come to some mutual agreements.”

  “You keep the lady of Bergheim your prisoner?” Dieter asked.

  Heinrich frowned. “Prisoner is a harsh word. She’s my … permanent guest,” he smiled, “who happens to be staying in the dungeons. She is my wife, after all, and has little waiting for her back in Bergheim anyway. In truth, the only reason she remains lady of Bergheim, as you put it, is because I’m the baron there.”

  He turned, noticing that Beauregard hadn’t moved. The butler’s stiffness was normal, but his darting eyes weren’t.

  “What are you doing, Beauregard? Did I not give you an order?”

  The butler gulped. “Er, I apologize, my lord, b-but . . .”

  “Out with it, man.”

  “Lady Engel has escaped, my lord.”

  Heinrich sucked in a breath, then stepped back. “Impossible! There is no exit from the cellars. And the door was under lock. Do you mean to tell me you—”

  “No, my lord!” Beauregard quickly shook his head. “It was not my doing. It was the young master—”

  “Hugo?”

  Beauregard nodded. “He went to fetch clean clothes for her, and she somehow fled.”

  Without warning, Heinrich began to laugh. Shaking his head, he chuckled, “That young fool!”

  Except that meant that now Heinrich would have to find the damnable woman. She certainly was proving to be much higher maintenance than he’d bargained for. Yet still, he couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of it all. She was as beautiful as Hugo was young and naïve. He’d noticed Hugo’s smitten expression when
ever he was around her. So he wasn’t that surprised to learn of the boy’s susceptibility at the hands of a manipulative, wily woman.

  Did I not do the same thing with a woman nearly twice my age when I was younger?

  Which made him think of Odela, causing him a sharp pang of heartache that he quickly suppressed. Waving off Beauregard, he said, “It’s no matter. Continue setting the table. I will dine with Dieter alone—”

  A noise from above cut off his words. Feet creaking on floorboards upstairs. Skewing his brow, Heinrich turned to the butler. “Who else is in the house?”

  The butler shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Er, no one else, my lord, to my knowledge.”

  Heinrich glanced at Dieter before turning back to Beauregard and squinting. Then, without a word, he stormed out of the dining room, motioning for Dieter to follow. When they reached the stairs, Heinrich began climbing them lightly, making sure not to sound any squeaky floorboards. At the top of the steps he heard the same sound again, this time closer, behind the first closed door. He reached for his knife and crept down the hall, whispering back to Dieter, “Stay here. And don’t let me lose sight of you, or I’ll take off your ear.”

  He walked quietly to the closed door, putting his ear against it. He heard a soft conversation.

  “. . . that one might be too late . . .” a female voice said. Though definitely not Lady Lucille, it did sound familiar—the nuance and tone—but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “. . . I must try . . .” a male voice replied. That one he definitely recognized. He shoved open the door, startling the two inside. The woman was sitting on the edge of the bed and let out a yip before putting her hand to her mouth. Hugo, leaning over the small desk in the room, quickly straightened up when Heinrich burst in.

  “You!” Heinrich said, low and menacingly, pointing to Hedda. “What in Jesus’ name are you doing here with my emissary?”

  Hedda stammered, but couldn’t speak. She tried adjusting her skewed glasses but with little success.

  Hugo held out his hands. “H-Heinrich, I can explain.”