by Cory Barclay
“What if they repent?”
Heinrich put his hand on Tomas’ shoulder and looked into his friend’s sad blue eyes. “People like William Edmond can repent with words, but never their hearts.”
Tomas shook his head. “But such action could have the opposite effect. The townspeople are unsettled. Have you seen how they look at you?” He motioned to a passing, hunchbacked man who stole a glance at Heinrich over his shoulder, then quickly turned away when Heinrich stared back.
“They’re terrified of you,” Tomas said.
Heinrich smiled, watching the hunchback limp away. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” Then his smile faded. “Just do as I say with the family, Tomas.”
“It is Ulrich’s jurisdiction to arrest guilty townsfolk, my lord.”
Heinrich grunted. “Fine, but don’t you dare oppose him.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Heinrich stared into the man’s eyes. “Or me,” he said, his tone sending the intended chill down Tomas’ spine.
“Of course not, my lord.”
After a moment, Heinrich broke his stare, patted Tomas on the back, and resumed walking. For a while the two didn’t speak, Heinrich instead taking pleasure in just watching the reactions from people they passed. Finally, Heinrich turned to Tomas.
“What have you heard about the peasant uprising?”
Tomas shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play the fool with me, Tomas. Balthasar told me the citizens are not pleased. He expects another Protestant uprising because of what happened at the Town Fair.”
“Ah yes, that,” said Tomas. “They were quite shaken from witnessing the summary executions of Adam and Martha Jacobo. Frankly, I was too. It was so . . . abrupt. Did you instruct Ulrich to do that?”
Heinrich shrugged. “Not in so many words. But I did give him a long leash to do as he saw fit with people resisting my orders regarding Protestants. They must all leave this city. Those who choose not to will die. Plain and simple.”
“But my lord, there are more peasants in Bedburg—and likely more Protestants—than soldiers! That might become a bloody battle.”
Heinrich clapped Tomas on the shoulder again. “Tomas, there are always more peasants than soldiers. That is why unrelenting force is required, to tame the masses. When their minds are properly terrorized, their will is ours. A single soldier can then easily manage ten-fold his number!” Heinrich smiled. “Also, that’s why I have you leading my forces, Tomas. I trust you will know what to do if things get out of hand. We know it will get worse before it gets better.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Tomas said, his tone deflated.
“Just stay on the right side of this battle and you’ll be fine, my friend. And report to me whenever you see anything out of the ordinary. I can’t have the peasants getting the upper hand.” Heinrich smiled again, then turned to leave.
“Where are you going, my lord?”
Heinrich waved over his shoulder. “I have matters to take care of at House Charmagne, Tomas. I’ve overstayed my welcome here.”
As Heinrich walked toward his carriage, Tomas shook his head, watching the thin tyrant’s black cloak ruffle in the wind.
“But it’s your town you’re abandoning, you selfish, soulless bastard . . .”
By nightfall Heinrich was back in the safe solitude of House Charmagne. He sighed with contentment as Felix brought the carriage through the front courtyard, past the perfectly aligned rows of trees leading to the mansion’s front door.
If anything bad happens at Bedburg, I always have this place. My impenetrable retreat.
His eyes drifted to the palisade and ramparts surrounding the estate. Rolf Anders was waiting at the front gate, his back stooped, his hands clasped in front of him. Somehow, the man’s long white beard seemed to have grown a few extra inches in the one day Heinrich had been gone.
Tightening his coat, Heinrich exited the carriage. “Rolf, what are you doing out here? You’ll catch cold.”
Rolf beamed. “You’re right on time, Heinrich. My visitor has only just arrived.”
At the news, Heinrich forced himself not to sprint to the door, or appear too excited. Instead, he rubbed his hands together thoughtfully as he walked past Rolf.
He was definitely ready for these mind-boggling, debilitating dreams to stop. To have them erased from his mind.
Rolf’s man had better have the cure.
Inside the main foyer, Beauregard closed the front door behind Heinrich, then led the two men down the red carpet to the dining room.
A strange little fellow was waiting in the room. Wearing furs and pelts, he looked more ready for the forest than a castle. His hair was black and wiry, his legs bare beneath a wool skirt that stopped at the knees. Tattooed on his clean-shaven face were strange blue symbols, matching the color of his striking, blue eyes. It was impossible to tell his age.
In short, he was unlike anything Heinrich had ever seen, and Heinrich’s expression said as much.
“What the hell are you?” Heinrich asked, his voice tinged with disgust.
The man chuckled, a high-pitched, annoying sound. But as soon as he spoke, Heinrich realized he was not what he seemed. His voice carried a soft, deep resonance, flavored with an edge of wisdom that contrasted sharply from his otherwise outlandish appearance.
“My name is Salvatore, my lord,” the man said with a thick accent.
Heinrich tilted his head. “Are you . . . Italian?”
“I am neither of the city nor the sea. I am a nomad, a tree-dweller, a soul of the sky.” The man put his palms together and raised them above his head, closing his eyes.
Heinrich frowned, unimpressed. “So you’re a madman . . .” he said, trailing off. Turning to Rolf, he demanded, “Why have you brought a lunatic to my abode, Rolf? Is this your idea of a joke?”
Rolf chuckled, shaking his head. “Salvatore is no madman, Heinrich. He just has a . . . strange manner about him.”
Salvatore opened his eyes and, smiling at Heinrich, gestured to a chair already pulled out from the table.
Which immediately irritated Heinrich.
This man thinks he can command me in my own home . . .
“Where did you find this lunatic, Rolf?”
When Heinrich did not sit, Rolf sat in the chair Salvatore had offered. Leaning his elbows on the table, Rolf said, “I’ve known Salvatore for many years. We worked together in . . . politics.”
Heinrich was shocked. “He was an assassin, too?”
Before Rolf could answer, Salvatore spoke up. “Yes, I was a purveyor of evil in my youth. I sought to separate the souls and minds of the devil-worshippers from their bodies.”
“He was a poisoner,” Rolf clarified.
“And now I’ve been brought to separate your thoughts from your mind, my lord,” Salvatore said, smiling, his purple eyes widening. Two rows of jagged, yellow teeth greeted his subject.
Heinrich shook his head. “I don’t need any separating. I just need these damn dreams to cease!”
Salvatore nodded. “Yes, of course. In your world, you call them nightmares. In my world, they are but images shaping our lives. Every image means something. If that meaning can be deduced, it can be changed. Like waves of the ocean, some are bigger, some smaller, some devilish, some divine. You must learn to ride the waves of your mind to avoid crashing onto the sands of your soul.”
Heinrich stared at the man. “What is this blasphemer getting on about, Rolf?”
Rolf smiled warmly. “He is what they call a benandanti, my lord. As you suspected, they hail from Italy. A visionary. Or if you will, literally, ‘a good walker.’”
“I am not a blasphemous man!” Salvatore stated. “So please take that back.”
Ignoring his demand, Heinrich arched his brow. “A good walker?”
Rolf tried to explain. “The benandanti claim to travel out of their minds and bodies when they sleep—like phantoms in the night. They
fight with evil spirits during their body’s slumber.”
Heinrich shook his head. “I’ve always known you to be a practical man, Rolf. But I seriously think you’ve gone senile.”
Rolf grinned. “He may be strange, Heinrich, but I’ve seen his methods. They work. Just give him a chance.”
“What will he do?”
Salvatore looked offended, being talked about like he wasn’t in the room. But then Rolf spoke several words to him in a language Heinrich didn’t understand and the man’s yellow-toothed smile reappeared.
“Yes, yes,” Salvatore replied. “I can help you combat your dire images. I can shape your thoughts to your will.”
“You can cure my nightmares?”
“If you take back what you said,” Salvatore nodded.
Heinrich sighed, eyed Rolf, then finally took a seat at the table beside Rolf.
“I take it back, witch-man. You are not a heretic.”
Salvatore clapped his hands suddenly, startling both Heinrich and Rolf. Kneeling down, he enthusiastically reached into a small bag hidden away. Heinrich noted that the bag was made from something very strange-looking, some kind of animal part.
Salvatore held up a vial of dark liquid. “Take this potion, my lord. It will help you fight your demons while you are entranced.”
“Entranced?”
“Asleep,” Rolf clarified.
Heinrich hesitated. He had no idea what was in the little vial.
At best, he thought, it will heal me. But at worst . . . this man was a poisoner!
He glanced at Rolf. I’ve always trusted him. Why would Rolf try to kill me? If he wanted that, he’d just have Beauregard put something in my dinner.
Heinrich snatched the vial. “Where are you staying, madman?”
“I am neither of the city nor the sea. I am a nomad—”
Heinrich put up his hand. “Yes, you already explained that.” He turned to Rolf. “Give him a room for the night, Rolf.” He stood up and walked behind Rolf. Leaning over the man, he whispered, “If he tries to kill me, I don’t want him escaping.”
“You have nothing to worry about, my lord,” Rolf replied.
Heinrich took a long look at the madman, who was now seated at the table, staring down at his own palm as he traced real or imaginary lines with his finger.
Before dwelling on this bizarre image any longer, Heinrich chugged the liquid, then retired to his bedroom to sleep.
He quickly fell into a dreamless, black slumber.
With no thoughts of his brother, or his mother, or his angelic savior.
No thoughts at all.
Just nothing.
CHAPTER TEN
DIETER
“If you do this, you will never be safe,” Ava told Dieter as he paced the room of the Griswold house. “You’ll always be looking over your shoulder.”
She smiled at little Peter, walking on wobbly legs behind Dieter, imitating him.
“I know that,” Dieter said, stopping for a moment and swinging around to surprise Peter. The child bumped into his legs and giggled. Dieter whisked him off the ground and held him in the crook of his arm.
Looking up at Ava and Jerome, he asked, “Isn’t this what you all wanted?”
Jerome swiveled his head from side to side. “In some ways, y-y-yes. But it p-puts us all in, in danger. Though it is ad-ad-admirable.”
“You can never go back to an easy life, Dieter,” Ava added. “Not while you remain in Germany.”
“I’ve never had an easy life, Ava,” Dieter said. “Plus, I don’t plan to stay long.” He sat down on the bench next to him and put Peter down beside him. The child quickly jumped off and began marching in circles, mimicking Dieter’s pacing. Despite the tension, everyone laughed.
“Where’s Martin?” Dieter asked. Dieter had returned from the Achterberg’s estate early that morning, before the sun had risen, and Martin was already gone.
“He said he was going reconnoitering in Bedburg,” Ava said.
Dieter scoffed. “He acts like we’re at war.”
“Aren’t w-we?” Jerome asked.
Dieter shook his head. “We’re a peaceful group, Jerome. We have no weapons and no ill will toward anyone. All I wish to do is aid the unfortunates who have fallen to Heinrich Franz’s whimsy.”
“Well, when you s-s-say it like that . . .”
“You remind me of a preacher I once heard,” Ava interrupted, “in Bedburg, when I was still a young girl.”
Dieter smiled. To him, Ava was still young, about sixteen. But he respected her courage. After being orphaned, she’d grown up quickly, living on the rough streets of Bedburg.
“He would shout at the top of his lungs on top of a crate,” she continued, “waving his arms around spastically. He was daring—preaching near the church, of all places. At first he drew just a few . . . but before long he had dozens listening.”
Dieter nodded. He remembered the man well. “Pastor Hanns Richter,” he said fondly. “He was a friend of mine. A brave man.” Thoughts of Hanns Richter brought Dieter back to when he was baptized. It was at a spring in the middle of the forest outside town. He remembered his head being submerged in the icy-cold water. At the time, the pastor had warned him of Heinrich Franz’s malevolence, but Dieter hadn’t believed him. Now, it was no secret.
In fact, it was Pastor Richter who’d helped form Dieter’s decision to marry Sybil—reconciling the conflict of being a priest, loving Sybil, and somehow still retaining his faith in God. Yet the good pastor had met a horrible fate. He’d been tormented, imprisoned, persecuted, and ultimately killed outside the city ramparts when Georg Sieghart’s archers mowed down his group.
Perhaps I am a bit akin to him . . .
The front door flew open. It was Martin. Ava jumped up, running to embrace him. They kissed briefly, and a pang of jealousy swept through Dieter. He longed for Sybil.
“Where have you been, Martin?” Dieter asked, with a bit more hostility than intended. “You worried us all.”
“You ran errands last night,” Martin replied with equal hostility, “and left without telling us a thing. So I did too.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small piece of paper. “We’ve received another note.”
He handed it to Dieter, then immediately wrapped his arms around Ava’s waist. “Aellin received it at the tavern during the night,” he said, staring into Ava’s eyes.
“Three names,” Dieter commented somberly, staring at the note. “Likely a family.”
Martin looked over at him. “Are we going to do anything this time?”
The horrific image of that poor couple dropping from the scaffold in the middle of the square filled Dieter’s head. “Yes, we are.” He headed for the door. “Right away.”
“That’s the spirit,” Martin said, smiling wistfully. He and Ava joined Dieter at the door.
Dieter shook his head at Ava. “I’m sorry. Just the men are going. It’s too dangerous.”
Ava frowned, her eyes darkening. “Have you any idea where these people live?”
“Not really. But I have a rough idea—”
“I know Bedburg better than either of you,” she said. “Every nook, cranny, alley, and gutter. Do you forget what I used to do?”
Ignoring her last comment, Martin said, “She could be useful, Dieter.”
Dieter hesitated, then nodded.
And with that, the three dashed from the house, leaving Jerome alone to stare blankly out the window while little Peter stopped pacing and stared at Jerome.
They hid behind a tree at the outskirts of the town’s southern gate, watching two men patrol the gate. Ava immediately made herself useful.
“I’ll distract them,” she said. “You two hurry in while you can.”
Before Martin could stop her she was already on her way, striding toward the gate, hips sashaying in a way that made both Martin and Dieter blush.
Dieter realized how he’d initially misjudged the brave girl. Even at her young age, she wa
s already quite a woman, reminding him of Sybil in both courage and beauty—yet still distinctly different: when they’d first met, Sybil had been innocent, fair, and kind; whereas Ava was dark, streetwise, and confident.
“Are you coming?” Martin whispered to Dieter.
Dieter nodded, shaking off the thoughts of the women in his life.
Creeping along the shadows, they walked quickly through the gate while both guards, their backs turned, carried on an animated conversation with Ava who smiled, flirted, even touched their arms.
Once they got past the gate, Ava’s disposition with the guards changed abruptly. Pretending to be insulted by one of them, she walked off in a huff through the gate.
When she caught up with Dieter and Martin moments later, she had a wide smile on her face. She gave Dieter a smirk.
He chuckled. “You were right. I was wrong.”
Nodding triumphantly, she asked, “So where do we go now? I suspect their abode would be in Tanner Row.”
“Where?” both men asked in unison.
“Where the tanneries are, boys. Keep up.” She sighed and walked off.
Dieter tapped Martin’s shoulder. “Stay with her.”
“You’re running off again?”
“We’ll work faster if we split up. Do you know what to say if you find this family?”
Martin shook his head.
“Convince them to come to the Griswold’s. Tell them it will only be temporary, but that their lives are in great peril.”
“What makes you think they’ll believe me?”
Dieter stared into Martin’s eyes. He thought of the sermons he used to give. “Speak with conviction, my friend—honestly and truthfully—and they will have no choice but to believe you.”
His words seemed to give Martin a much-needed boost. The young man nodded firmly, then ran off after Ava.
“No matter what happens,” Dieter called to Martin, “meet at the tavern by midday!”
Then Dieter headed for the tavern. There was another way he might be able to find this family.
Since it was a busy morning in Bedburg, Dieter walked confidently—no need to hide—but still avoided eye contact with passing town guards. Minutes later, he arrived at the tavern. At this early hour it was nearly empty, though the smell of spilled ale and other foul odors lingered in the air. Only one man sat on a stool at the bar, his head stooped down in front of him. Behind the bar, a bartender was wiping the table with a white cloth.