Morgarten Excerpt

 

Chapter 1

Erich stood over Gissler’s body and absently stroked the three stumps on his right hand that had once been fingers. A crossbow bolt protruded from Gissler’s upper chest. Erich took a moment to admire the unknown archer’s skill, for if the shot had struck a fraction of an inch lower, Gissler’s chainmail vest may have spared his life. Or, perhaps it was merely luck. That was far more likely. Luck, or rather, its absence had killed far more people than skill ever would.

Erich’s brows furrowed and he crossed his arms. There was something odd about the angle of the bolt. And the entire shaft was crusted in dried blood, all the way to the tips of its leather vanes….

A crash and the sound of splintering wood caught his attention. He turned away from the corpse and saw Reto climbing down from the top of the cage wagon. The bald, leathery-faced man cursed as he dropped to the ground.

“Nothing here. Found a strongbox but no coins,” Reto said.

He pulled something flat and heavy that was tucked under his arm and tossed it into the trees.

“What was that?”

Reto shrugged. “Parchment. Maybe a book. That one got anything good on him?”

Erich nodded. “A fine sword. Take it and the mail vest, but leave the clothing.” They were too stiff with old blood to salvage.

Reto scurried over and picked up Gissler’s sword. He whistled in appreciation and tucked it into his belt. His small eyes darted over Gissler’s corpse. “And what is wrong with those boots? Look broken in and comfortable to me. Might be my size, too.”

Erich held up his hands. “Take them. But if you do, you offer up your own boots to one of the other men, if they want them. And you can carry that sword for now, but when we get back to camp it goes into the pool.”

Reto flashed his teeth for only a second before bending to pilfer Gissler’s corpse. Erich watched as his man tugged off the corpse’s boots and ripped off his tunic to get at the chainmail vest.

Erich told himself he should be enjoying this moment more. This was, after all, one of the bastards who had killed most of his men those many months ago. The past half-year had been beyond difficult. But that was nothing new for him.

Erich’s father had been a grain farmer until his wife died when Erich was ten. Life had been hard while she was alive, but with her passing, Erich’s father and even the land itself seemed to give in. The crop shriveled and the next year blight finished it off. They starved for a season, earning what they could by begging, and, unknown to his father, some minor thefts. The next year the community hired Erich’s father as an alper. He was to take everyone’s animals up high into the Alps to forage for summer pasture and would not return for three months. He left in early spring, leaving Erich alone on their rocky land to fend for himself. When his father returned in late summer, Erich was gone.

He fell in with rough men, and realized that to survive, he would need to be rougher yet. After ten years, and many a hard lesson learned, he formed a brigand band of his own. They did well, flourished even. Until he lost half his men when they made the mistake of ambushing Gissler’s group.

Erich had built his band back up to twenty men, but he needed half again that number if he had any hope of seizing even the smallest merchant caravan. Especially considering the quality of his current followers.

He looked at the sword sticking out of Reto’s belt and wondered if it was the same blade that had cut off his fingers. He could not remember the look of the sword, for it had happened too fast. The man behind the weapon, however, was another story. Erich could still hear the contempt in his words: He will not be any good with a bow for the rest of his miserable life.

He was right, of course. Erich also could no longer grasp a sword handle in his right hand, and had resorted to practicing with his sinister hand. It was still clumsy and awkward, but he knew with time he would adapt. What other choice did he have?

Erich wandered to the side of the road and peered into the trees at the leather-bound object Reto had discarded. Turning his head to protect his eyes, he squatted and retrieved the book from beneath a prickly bush. He turned it over in his hands, surprised by its weight.

So, this is a book.

It was the first time in his life he had ever held one. He unfastened the intricate buckle and fanned through the first few pages. He grunted with disappointment at the lack of pictures, then squinted at the flowing script and wondered at its meaning.

Reto was right. The book was worthless to men like them. He closed it and ran his hand once over the smooth cover. But there were others who valued these curiosities more than gold.

Erich tucked the book under his arm and walked over to a horse grazing at the side of the road. She cast him a sidelong glance as he approached and snorted, but did not consider him enough of a threat to give up the sweet tufts of grass overflowing into the road from the forest floor.

Someone had unhitched her from the wagon and left her to roam free. Her coat still bore harness marks, and unfortunately, a prominent Habsburg brand on her rump. Erich would have to leave her behind. No horse trader within a thousand leagues would buy a stolen Habsburg mount.

Four years ago Erich knew of another group of brigands that had been brazen enough to take three of Duke Leopold’s horses from a stable in Andermatt. Habsburg soldiers hunted them for weeks, and when they found them, the horse thieves were hung and quartered. Their torsos were dragged through Andermatt until they fell apart. Their limbs received a similar treatment in various villages to the east, and the thieves’ heads were sent to Altdorf to be placed atop poles in the town square. The Habsburgs placed a high value on their horses—much higher than the lives of men such as Erich.

He glanced around, wondering where the other half of the two-horse team was. If someone had been fool enough to steal one, why stop there? Why not take them both?

His eyes picked up two skid marks carved into the surface of the road. They were the width of a man’s shoulders and led from the wagon to the forest edge. Puzzled, Erich followed the trail a few steps into the trees where the dense brush swallowed it up.

Reto came to Erich’s side and scratched his stubbled head. “Looks like someone stole a horse and dragged something in there. What do you think it was? Another strong box maybe?”

Erich could see where something large had brushed aside branches to enter the woods, but then he could make out no further trail. He pointed to a single drop of blood on a rock at the road’s edge.

“It was a person. Someone on a stretcher made of branches. Someone hurt.”

“Should we follow them?”

“Follow what, exactly?” Erich said.

He stared into the trees. Their trunks swayed and creaked in the breeze. He swore he could feel them staring back.

He shook his head. Like the crumbled bits of a dried leaf on a windy day, the trail had simply vanished.

***

The whispers came for Seraina in sleep, as they often did. Some time ago, or perhaps only moments before, she recalled sitting down against a giant spruce and closing her eyes. Seraina could still feel the ridges of rough bark pressed against her back. That sensation was a tie to the waking world and she latched onto it, resisting the pull of the voices.

Her visions were rare and, so she was told, a gift from the Great Weave. Something to be treasured. But these voices calling from afar, differed from the ones she had heard before. They grew, both in volume and quantity, and as they became louder, they seemed to insist that Seraina listen. No, they demanded to be heard. Finally, Seraina understood.

They were screams.

Wails of terror, pain, fear, and rage. The realization tore Seraina completely away from the waking world. The comforting reassurance of the tree’s bark against her back was gone. She found herself hurtling through gray mist that clogged her nostrils and filled her mouth as she drew in deep breaths to ease the frantic pace set by her heart. The screams became louder, the anguish so unbearable, she clapped her hands over her ears knowing full well it would do little good.

She had to help them.

The mist cleared. Not gradually, but all at once, like the goddess Ardwynna herself had banished it from her forest realm with a clap of her hands.

Altdorf.

Seraina floated high above the ramparts of the Altdorf fortress. A great host encircled the keep, pouring through and over broken sections of the outer walls. In the distance, the sky glowed with the heat of a thousand fires as the town burned.

The winds carried Seraina lower, in an erratic swoop like a swallow chasing mosquitoes. But this bird had no control over her descent and Seraina soon gave up trying to direct her flight. She took a deep breath and surrendered herself to the Winds of the Weave, knowing full well where they meant to take her. She closed her eyes, but that only brought the gruesome images of war into focus. There was no way to shield one’s eyes while trapped within a vision.

She watched as a man with a two-handed sword cut another in half from shoulder to hip-bone, and he in turn was skewered from behind by another man’s blade. They fell, and other men ran over their bodies, howling, their faces red and twisted by the furies of battle.

Seraina winced as she felt their rage, their need to kill, and the great relief as a man slid his blade into the open mouth of another. His teeth dragged against the steel, ringing out a long, grating note. Tears filled her eyes and she tried to look away, but it was futile. The winds were merciless. They whisked her throughout the battle, from one gory scene to the next, like she was some wealthy patron of a macabre series of plays.

An old man sat astride a young soldier and pummelled his head with a bloody rock. A young girl, not yet in her teens, attempted to crawl through dirt muddied with blood, as two men tore the clothes from her back. Nearby, a group of soldiers laughed and passed around a wineskin. They watched a man grind against an unmoving naked woman, her arms and legs tied to stakes thrust into the ground. No sounds came from her broken lips, but Seraina could hear her screams. Shrieks that mingled with all the others, forming background music for the chaos.

Finally, relief, and no small measure of guilt, washed over Seraina as the winds took her away once more. They left her standing on top of a crumbled section of the outer wall.

In front of her, stood Thomas.

His tunic was drenched in blood, dripping with it, like it had been freshly pulled from a dying vat. He looked directly at her, and smiled. The scar, extending from the corner of his left eye all the way to his jawline, was so white it hurt Seraina’s eyes.

He took a step toward Seraina but a man appeared between them. Thomas crushed his skull with a quick swing of his mace. More figures climbed onto the wall. Thomas stepped over the dead man at his feet and slashed with the sword in his other hand. Another man fell, only to be replaced by two more.

Seraina blinked. It occurred to her then, that of all the people she had seen thus far, Thomas was the only one she recognized. She had sensed the others’ terror and pain, felt their need to kill or maim, but, thank the Goddess, she did not know their faces. And while she knew Thomas’s face, when she quested out to him from within her own mind, she felt… nothing. No emotions whatsoever.

Thomas opened the throat of another and, when the dying man fell to his knees, Thomas brought his mace down upon his head. With every death, Thomas took one step toward Seraina. But he could never close the distance.

Seraina called out his name, and Thomas heard. He lowered his mace and sword and stared at her. He shook his head slowly.

Enemies flooded around him. A dozen swords pierced his body and he stumbled. His dark, almost black, eyes never left hers until he tumbled backward over the wall.

Seraina gasped and leaned out between two crenellations. She watched his body fall, and though she was too far away to see his face, she knew he wore a contented smile. A moment before his body smashed against the rocks below, she felt the first hint of emotion emanate from Thomas’s mind. It was only a simple pause, like a breath before sleep, and was gone in an instant. But she recognized it for what it was.

Relief.

Tears clouded her eyes as she stared at the blood-red form lying broken below. The Weave came for her then. Seraina shouted in protest and reached toward Thomas, but the winds plucked her from the walls and sent her spinning back into the mist.

Seraina woke with a start and she fought back a cough as breath poured into her lungs. She pushed her spine hard against the tree, and let it cradle her, as she allowed her senses time to recover from her vision.

The mist was gone, but now she was surrounded in darkness. Two sets of eyes stared at her, reflecting the glowing coals of a dying campfire. One set was blue and ancient, the other gold and wild.

“What have you seen, my child?” Gildas asked.

The violent images were still too fresh in her mind and they stole her voice. Suddenly cold, Seraina wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. She stared into the hissing embers, jealous of their warmth. It took several minutes before she was able to answer the old druid, but Gildas waited patiently and did not press. He knew better. The wolf at his side, however, whined at her silence.

Eventually, Seraina forced words from her throat.

“Something is wrong,” she said.

 

Chapter 2

Duke Leopold rode at the front of a squad of fifty soldiers. Klaus, his ever-present man-at-arms, was at his side. The gray-haired veteran’s hooded eyes swept back and forth on the road ahead, like a wary bird of prey waiting for a field mouse to break cover.

The only sign of movement came when a cold wind pushed its way through the trees and breathed life into a scattering of dead leaves, whipping them into a frenzy. They rose a foot into the air and hovered there for a moment. Then they began to turn in a circle, slowly at first. As the momentum built, they rose higher off the road and formed a column of spinning gold and tawny debris. The whirlwind floated back and forth across the road, in an erratic pattern that resembled a drunkard stumbling between taverns.

“Look!”

Leopold cringed as the sound of the Habsburg Fool’s voice came from somewhere behind him. Much too close.

“The carpenter’s fart!”

The little, purple-haired man sat sideways on a shaggy Norse pony. The Fool’s face was split down the middle with white and black paint, a design his clothing also followed. Every now and then, when his pony stumbled, the Fool’s pointed shoes tinkled with the sound of bells.

The Fool pointed at the twirling leaves. The soldiers nearest him laughed for everyone knew the story of the carpenter who had traded his soul to the Devil in exchange for two wishes. In a remarkable feat of balance and agility, the Fool stood on his saddle and acted out the entire story while standing on his moving pony’s back.

“For the first, he asked for riches,” he said in his best stage voice. It carried easily to the last soldier in line. “And the Devil made appear a kettle of gold coins! Far more than any man could spend in a lifetime. But the crafty carpenter paused before he made his second wish, knowing full well the Devil would own his soul once it was granted. ‘Make your second wish,’ the Devil demanded.”

The Fool lifted his leg, screwed up his face, and farted; a necessary skill for any respectable court jester.

“My wish is for you to catch that and return it to me,” he said, then he pointed at the spinning leaves. “And there goes the Devil now! Chasing the ever elusive carpenter’s fart.”

Most of the soldiers laughed, and more than a few crossed themselves when the Fool pointed out the Devil in their path. The Fool bowed in all directions, and then feigned to lose his balance. He fell split-legged onto his saddle, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he doubled over in mock pain.

That was enough for Leopold.

“I think the men at the end of the line have not had their fair share of you this trip. Go ride with them. If I see your painted face again, or hear your voice, I will have the men eat your pony and you can walk back to Habsburg.”

The Fool clamped one hand over his mouth and covered his eyes with the crook of his other arm. Somehow, he managed to turn his pony around and plow his way through the soldiers all the way to the back of the formation.

 ***

Leopold did not balk when Klaus raised his fist and brought the column to a halt before the bridge spanning the Salzach river. Klaus had been responsible for Leopold’s safety for all twenty-four years of the young duke’s life, and his dedication to the task was genuine. He was one of only two people in this world that Leopold felt he could trust. The only other was his brother, Frederich.

Klaus stood in his stirrups and his head turned from side to side on his thick neck. He motioned for Leopold and his soldiers to remain where they were. He spurred his horse ahead and rode up to the narrow bridge. His horse hesitated, at first, but Klaus nudged it forward onto the wooden planks.

Leopold watched as Klaus examined the bridge and the far bank for any sign of treachery. A slow moving barge floated down the water. It was piled high with blocks of salt from the nearby mines. Klaus waited until it had passed beneath the bridge and faded into the distance, before he took his eyes from it and continued his inspection.

The old soldier had not yet forgiven himself for being absent when Leopold and Gissler had been ambushed on the forest road in Kussnacht. Ever since then he had been especially diligent when it came to his lord’s security. Each of the twenty soldiers in Leopold’s personal guard had been hand-picked by Klaus for their loyalty to the House of Habsburg. Although that thought did little to comfort Leopold, the fact that Klaus trusted each man did.

Leopold was confident Klaus would never betray him. He could never hope to gain a better position than the right hand of the Duke of Further Austria. Especially at his age. Leopold heard the whispers at court. Many thought Klaus was already too old to serve Leopold and they were lining up to suggest friends, sons, or cousins that would swear undying loyalty to the Duke.

But Leopold understood well the transient nature of loyalty. He pinched the top of his high-bridged nose and closed his eyes.

Damn that Schwyzer Hospitaller.

Gissler would have been the perfect replacement for Klaus. Unconnected at court and with not a trace of blue blood in his veins, his loyalty would have been easily bought. Owning a man with Gissler’s skills would have been a great boon to the House of Habsburg.

And what would he have done with Klaus?

Leopold had not even thought about that. Of course he would have to keep him near, for the gruff veteran knew more Habsburg secrets than almost anyone. Perhaps even more than Leopold himself. But Klaus had served the Habsburg line well, and Leopold would ensure he lived out his last years in comfort. Still, he would need to be watched and kept near. For the man’s own protection, Leopold told himself.

Leopold opened his eyes and stared at Klaus as he rode back toward them. For such a big man he rode well, and his body was as fit as any knight twenty years younger. Leopold realized it would be a few years yet before he would need to be replaced. That was a small measure of relief, for Leopold had no shortage of problems that required his immediate and full attention.

Chief among them, of course, was Arnold Melchthal and the ragtag army of peasants he had managed to raise. He had assumed it was Berenger von Landenberg’s ineptness that had allowed the outlaw to remain at large for so long. But now that Melchthal was in full control of the new fortress in Altdorf, Leopold had to admit that he had underestimated the young man from Unterwalden.

He would not do so again.

The iron shoes of his own mount clattering against the wooden planks of the bridge pulled Leopold from his thoughts. He realized they were on the move again. Up ahead in the distance he saw the beginnings of Salzburg’s Low-town, and perched five hundred paces above it, on a dramatic rock outcropping, stood Salzburg Castle; home to the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg who, Leopold hoped, would be the solution to all his problems.

Farms and garden plots lined the road leading to Salzburg, and gradually gave way to the simple bungalows of the common classes. The grand Church of Saint Peter loomed high over these, and seemed to serve as a buffer between the cramped quarters of the simple townsfolk and the more elaborate two and three-story houses of the nobility. As Leopold and his escort came nearer to the base of the castle mountain, the houses became larger and more ornate; many with fenced off grounds of their own.

Leopold and Klaus dismounted in front of a stone gatehouse that seemed to grow out of the rock itself. Two soldiers snapped to attention in its arch and several crossbowmen leaned over the wall above to get a look at the new arrivals. The gate was the only access to the serpentine path that wound its way up the rocky slope to the main keep of the Castle.

Leopold ignored the guards and motioned for Klaus to follow him. Klaus grunted something to the captain of Leopold’s men, then he followed Leopold through the great archway.

The Archbishop’s steward stood waiting for them. He held the reins of two long-maned horses draped with silk blankets of red and white. On their heads they wore towering feathered headdresses to match.

The steward folded at the waist and held out the reins of the horses.

“Welcome to High-Salzburg, Duke Leopold. The Archbishop apologizes for being unable to greet your arrival in person, but commands we attend him immediately. He has supplied fresh horses to spare you the long climb to the castle.”

Leopold did not even glance at the offered reins. Instead, he fixed the man with a withering glare and removed his gloves, one finger at a time.

“That command was intended only for you, I assume. For one prince does not command another,” Leopold said. “Come, Klaus. We will take the rope-carriage. My arse has been beaten enough by horse flesh for one day.”

The two men walked past the open-mouthed steward and approached the Archbishop’s carriage. Decorated with ornate red and gold carvings, it had only two small wheels at its front, which made it list against the mountainside at an odd angle. The metal-rimmed wheels rested on iron rails and a series of ropes stretched from the carriage up the side of the mountain, disappearing far above.

Leopold made a show of opening the door for Klaus and gestured for him to climb in. Klaus hesitated and his usually emotionless face creased with the discomfort of having his lord open a door for him.

“Come now, Klaus. The good Archbishop would not have us thumping up these meandering paths on the backs of beasts when we could ride in comfort. Wipe your boots and climb in.”

The steward managed to awaken from his stupor and scurried over. “My Duke, perhaps I could call another carriage from the keep if the horses are not to your liking.”

“When there is a perfectly good one here? Nonsense. Why bother your stable hands?”

Klaus’s huge boots had managed to collect enough dirt and manure to nurture a small garden, and when he scraped them off at the base of the door, more fell inside the carriage than without.

“It is just that… the rope-carriage… is reserved for the Archbishop’s personal use. No one is permitted—”

Leopold held up his hand to silence the man.

“I understand completely. But, do not fret. I will be sure not to lend it out to any unsavory characters,” Leopold said.

He resisted the urge to help the slow-moving Klaus squeeze through the narrow doorway with a shove. When the big man finally fell into a seat with his back to the mountain, Leopold stepped in and slammed the door shut behind him. He reached his arm through the half-door’s opening and slapped his hand against the outside of the carriage like he would the rump of a horse.

“Do not stand there gaping, man. Get those oxen spinning their wheel. The bishop awaits!”

The steward puckered up his face and replied in a small voice. “The Archbishop, Duke Leopold.”

Leopold narrowed his eyes at the man. “The aged Archbishop. In fact he is getting so old he may no longer be with us by the time I get to the top of this mountain. You, on the other hand are much younger, and if fortunate, will be on this earth much longer than your bishop. I wonder who your next lord will be?”

The steward took a step back and bowed his head. He turned and shouted at the wheel house. “Hitch up the oxen! Send runners to the top. The Archbishop’s cart is coming up!”

Leopold leaned into his upholstered seatback, out of the sun’s heat, and tried to ignore the stench of disturbed manure wafting up from Klaus’s boots.

 

Chapter 3

Noll Melchthal found himself alone in the Altdorf keep, and he did not like it.

He sat on the lowest step leading up to the throne platform and kept his eyes locked on the stone floor, for every time he looked around the cavernous room he could not help but be overwhelmed by its man-made grandeur. Four tall men could stand atop one another’s shoulders and still be unable to touch the timber supports of the floor above. The cold, flagstone floor, white with the recent dust created by mason chisels, stretched far into the distance.

He stared across that gray sea with an unfocused gaze. The cracks between the blocks of stone faded away the nearer they came to the dark alcove of the main doors, and once again, Noll could not keep his thoughts from settling on Seraina.

He had sent messengers to Habsburg Castle proposing a trade. Landenberg, Vogt of Unterwalden, for Seraina and the ferryman, if he yet lived. His messenger had returned two days ago with the news that Duke Leopold had refused to see him, and rumor had it that the Duke had departed for Salzburg.

Noll was crestfallen. If Leopold had taken his prisoners to Salzburg, they could at this very moment be in the hands of the Archbishop’s confessors. A vision of Seraina defiantly holding back her screams as Leopold’s torturers worked their dark trade forced Noll’s stomach into the back of his throat. He clenched his eyes in vain and ground the heels of his hands hard against his temples.

Crippled by the strength of his own imagination, he could not bring himself to look up when the great doors grated on their hinges. He waited for the sound of boots on stone, the inevitable approach of someone who needed him to make yet another decision. But the footsteps never came. Whoever it was, must have recognized this was not a good time to seek Noll’s counsel, and had left him alone with his grief.

Noll let out a breath, thankful. But as he breathed in, he sensed a presence. There was a life besides his own in the cold stone room. And it smelled of pine.

The realization that he was not alone saved him from jumping when a warm hand touched his shoulder.

“Noll,” Seraina said.

He raised his head, and although he did not jump, his heart almost burst in his chest when he saw Seraina standing before him. Her green eyes flashed, filling the keep with more life than if it had been packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people. For the briefest moment, he thought it was the cruelty of his imagination at work once again, but when she smiled and pulled him to his feet, he knew it was no trick.

“Seraina!” He pulled her into his arms and laughter flowed from her lips. The sound settled over him like a hot bath. He closed his eyes, and breathed in great mouthfuls of the pine and sunshine from her auburn hair, hardly daring to believe she was there.

“I thought you lost,” he said, and pulled her in even tighter. He would have been content to stay that way, but Seraina gently eased out of the embrace.

“Gissler is dead,” she said. “Thomas found me.”

Noll nodded, and let her escape from his grip.

Then he remembered Leopold had been together with Gissler when they had taken Seraina. Perhaps that was why his messenger could not make contact with the Duke. Perhaps he too was dead.

He could not keep the excitement out of his words. “And Leopold? What of the boy tyrant?”

Seraina shook her head. “He escaped. The Red Lion lives. The Habsburg threat is still very real.”

He should not have let his hope go unchecked. Leopold would not give up his place in the world so easily. “But the ferryman is still alive as well. Your face tells me as much.”

“I would have come sooner, but Thomas was badly injured. I have been by his side these many days past,” Seraina said.

“He is here then?”

“No. Thomas is still too weak to move. I left him in good company, but I cannot stay long.”

“Why come at all then?”

He could not keep the hard edge from creeping into his words, as it always did when he spoke of the ferryman. Was it the man himself who he disliked so much? Or was it the way Seraina spoke his name? Noll closed his eyes and shook his head. This was madness. His people were now at war with the Holy Roman Empire. A war he had started. And he was fawning over a girl like some fresh-faced boy yearning for manhood.

“I had to see you Noll.” Seraina paused before continuing. “I had another vision.”

Noll studied her face. She tried to smile, but it was an awkward attempt. “I would wager the omens were not good,” he said.

Seraina turned away. Her nose crinkled as her eyes swept the room from the flagstone floor to the heavy timbers supporting the next level of rooms high overhead.

“There is something wrong,” she said. “Something I do not understand.”

“There is plenty wrong,” Noll said. “For starters, I have an army of only five hundred men. Farmers and woodcutters, with only one sword for every ten men. The defenses of this fortress are only half complete and all my master builders have gone back home to their families. The Austrians could march in here with a thousand real soldiers and take this pile of stones before nightfall. And now, I have word that he has gone to Salzburg, where he will surely demand that the other princes rally to his cause. What about this situation is not wrong?”

The lines of worry that had creased Seraina’s face only a moment before, faded. She stepped in closer to Noll and pulled one of his waving hands out of the air and covered it with her own. As always, all concern for her own troubles vanished when confronted with someone else in need.

“There is still so much to be thankful for,” she said. She let go of him and spun away, her dress swirling with the sudden motion, and began pacing. Her steps were light and silent. “We have all this,” she said sweeping one arm around the room. “Whereas, only a short time ago, we had nothing. You have awoken our people, but even more than that, you have shown them what is possible. Surely, that is worth more than a few soldiers?”

“But have I woken enough of our people? There is still no word from Berne or the guilds of Zurich. Nor has Lucerne offered any support for the Eidgenossen.”

“Do not worry about them. More will come. I have seen it, remember? There are many yet who wish to awaken and climb out from under Habsburg rule.”

Noll shook his head. “I hope you are right, Seraina. I truly do. But I also know it is impossible to awaken a man who only pretends to sleep.”

Seraina laughed. “This is a fine turn,” she said. “It is usually you accusing me of talking in riddles. We become more alike everyday.” She took Noll’s arm. “It is damp and lifeless in here. Come, my mushroom-man, let us put some sun on that frowning face.”

She led him to the balcony overlooking the courtyard and they stepped out into the fresh air. Noll squinted into the afternoon light, and a soft breeze tousled his hair. He immediately felt better. Seraina was right, Noll thought. Shutting himself away in that cave, trapped alone with only his self-doubts for company, had dampened his spirits.

“Now tell me. What preparations have you made and what can I do to help?” Seraina asked.

Noll pointed to the gatehouse. “I have directed most of the work, so far, on finishing the gatehouse and the outer walls. But as it stands now, there are still a dozen breaches.”

“How long before Leopold comes?”

“That is the only good news in all of this. The first snows will be here in another six weeks, so he has missed his opportunity for this year. He could possibly attack in spring, but the passes will still be too soft for an army. And besides, Leopold is too practical. He will wait for us to bring in the first crops so he has food for his men.”

“Midsummer then?”

Noll nodded. “Those are my thoughts.”

Seraina’s face brightened. “So we have time. Time to find more allies and prepare. You see, things are not as bad as you feared.”

Noll rolled his eyes. “Perhaps. But I will feel much better when I have Pomponio.”

Seraina frowned. “What is a pom-pony-o?”

“Not what, who. Giovanni Pomponio. He is a Venetian, and a master swordsman. I have contracted him to come and train the men.”

The way Seraina’s eyes narrowed told Noll she was not keen to the idea.

“How much is this mercenary charging you for his services?”

“Not just him. He says he will bring a dozen of his best men as well. And it is Habsburg gold anyway, for we found a small chest in Leopold’s room.”

“How much?”

Noll hesitated. “All of it,” he said.

Seraina shook her head and stepped away from the balcony railing. “Noll, you could have bought swords for your men with that money. And really, do you think it wise to bring in outsiders?” she asked.

Noll felt his jaw tighten. He grabbed Seraina by the arm.

“What good is a sword in the first place if a man does not know how to use it? Ten months from now, an army of battle-hardened killers will be at our doorstep. We need to surround ourselves with men like these, learn from them, if we are to survive. And the sooner the better.”

He let go of her arm. “I am sorry,” he said. “I forget myself at times.”

“It is all right, Noll,” Seraina said. “I understand. Outsiders make me nervous, that is all. But, you may be right.”

Seraina had once told Noll that it was his fire that made him who he was. She could no more blame a cat for eating a wounded bird. And that so long as his laughter came just as often as his bursts of anger, he was living the life the Weave had intended for him.

But it had been some time since Noll had last laughed.

Right or not, it was done. The Venetians would be here tomorrow, or the day after. It did not matter how much gold it cost, Noll was not going to ask any man to fight beside him if he was not prepared.

“Will you stay here for the night?” Noll asked.

Seraina stared out over the courtyard. Her green eyes were fixed on a section of the outer wall. She seemed to not have heard him.

“Seraina?”

She blinked, and turned toward Noll. “Yes? No, I cannot stay here. I must head back to Thomas tonight.”

Noll nodded. “Of course,” he said. “How far do you go? I can get you a horse…”

“An hour north of White Elk Glade. It is easier to go on foot.”

Noll felt the previous worries over Seraina’s safety begin anew. “Stay off the roads, then. Habsburg patrols have begun to blockade the northern ways. It will not be long before they close them down completely.”

“I have little use for roads,” Seraina said. “You should know that by now.”

 

Chapter 4

The blackness cleared, one dark layer at a time, and Thomas forced his eyes open. His chest heaved and air rushed into his lungs, which sent his heart thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird.

“Easy now. The Weave welcomes you back, but no need to rush into her embrace.”

The voice’s owner, an old man, appeared above him and, for a moment, Thomas thought he dreamed again of the trapper that had taken him in after the death of his parents. But this man’s long, powder-white beard and wizened eyes did not belong to the trapper of his memories. The man placed the palm of one leathery hand against Thomas’s chest and within seconds the palpitations slowed.

Glancing around him, Thomas saw he lay on a bed of spruce boughs covered with a plush lambskin blanket. Another heavy skin was on top of his naked body and pulled right up under his chin. Though he could not see them, he felt the snugness of bandages wrapped around his middle and one leg.

At first he thought he was in a large tent, but then realized his head was inches from the base of a giant spruce, and the walls of the tent were, in fact, the tree’s overgrown limbs stretched down to the ground. A tiny, smokeless fire burned on the far side of the natural room, and beyond that was an opening in the evergreen wall just large enough for a person to squeeze through.

The old man held a wooden bowl to Thomas’s mouth. The lukewarm broth, thin but pungent, flowed past his cracked lips and traced a route clear down to his stomach. The man pulled the bowl away before Thomas could drink his fill.

“Enough. For now. It would not do to sodden your roots just yet.”

After working the saliva around in his mouth and swallowing, Thomas found his voice.

“Seraina?”

The old man smiled. “She is fine. Do not fret over her whereabouts, as I suspect she will be along shortly.”

“Who are you?” The strength and clarity of his own voice surprised Thomas. Starting at his toes he began flexing his muscles one by one, in an attempt to gauge the severity of his injuries.

“Some names are worth knowing, Thomas Schwyzer. Mine is not one of those. I did not kill you in your sleep, so I suspect you can tell that I am a friend, and that should be enough.”

A rustle to Thomas’s right made him risk turning his neck, and what he saw sent his heart hammering off the walls of his chest once again. An enormous wolf, its fur the same downy white as the old man’s hair and beard, sat on its haunches less than two strides away. It caught Thomas’s sudden movement and turned its great head toward him. Its lips curled up to bare pink gums and jagged teeth longer than a man’s finger. A guttural warning echoed up from somewhere deep in the back of the beast’s throat.

Thomas found himself scrambling back to lean on his elbows and his head banged against the trunk of the giant spruce. Pain lanced down his side and his leg throbbed as blood coursed through the limb.

“Oppid! Get back. Our patient does not need to see the likes of you just yet.”

He reached out and pressed his hand against Thomas’s chest. Thomas risked a glance at the old man and wondered if he had been saved by a hermit touched by madness. But there was something about the way the man spoke and the rhythm of his words, and before he knew it, Thomas was once again lying under the warm lambskin. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the snarling wolf.

The old man began talking to the beast as though Thomas was no longer present. “Even if he meant us ill, a man in his condition is no threat to either one of us. Surely you can see that? Settle down now.”

The beast kept its amber eyes fixed on Thomas and slowly lowered itself onto its belly. After a moment it rested its massive head on top of paws the size of full-grown rabbits.

“Is that your animal?” Thomas asked once he could speak.

“Oppid is my companion,” the old man said. “You have to forgive him. He is not the trusting sort.”

“But he is tamed?”

“Tame?” The old man looked at Thomas and laughed, revealing straight teeth even whiter than his beard. “By Ardwynna’s Grace, of course he is not tame. He is a wolf.”

That did little to set Thomas at ease. He could not keep his eyes from the wolf, and finally the old man sensed his discomfort. He said a few words in a tongue unfamiliar to Thomas and the wolf padded to the doorway. But before he exited the tree shelter, he turned his golden eyes on Thomas and gave him one last blood-curdling snarl, as if to say, I will not be far.

With the wolf gone, Thomas relaxed. He continued the self-assessment of his injuries. He felt the stiffness of stitches on his thigh, as well as his torso and chest, but there were no severed muscles or ligaments from what he could tell. Even though he was concealed beneath the blanket, his nakedness was uncomfortable. The Knights of Saint John were forbidden to sleep naked, and it was a rule that was strictly enforced.

“I owe you my life,” he said.

“Not me. Seraina is the one that tended your wounds. And she did a fine job, I should say. You were already on the mend when I first saw you.”

Thomas glanced down at the line of stitches stretching down his side. “It would seem her skill rivals that of Hildegard of Bingen,” Thomas said.

One side of the old man’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “Ah, you mean Sibyl of the Rhine? Your church did well to claim her as one of its own, I will give you that. But tell me, why has she not been ushered into Sainthood when so many undeserving ones have?”

The hostility in his words caught Thomas off guard. “It was meant as a compliment. I know very little of Hildegard. If not for her texts on healing, I doubt I would even know her name.”

“You know only what the church would have you know. Nothing more.”

“I know God saw fit to imbue her with great healing skills. Is that not enough?”

“Why is it that you Christians are so eager to attribute all the good in this world to God and all things evil to the Devil?”

“God sets us all on the path He sees fit,” Thomas said.

“Well, your god had nothing to do with Seraina’s skills. Seraina worked hard for her knowledge. I have never seen a disciple so devoted.”

“You were her teacher?”

“One of many.”

There was a slight rustle at one of the makeshift branch-walls and Seraina slipped through. Her eyes went wide when she saw Thomas sitting up.

“You are awake!”

She dropped the sack in her hand and was at Thomas’s side before he could speak. She took his hand in hers and placed the other on his forehead.

“How do you feel?” her eyes glowed in the half-darkness of the shelter and Thomas found himself unable to look away.

“Good,” he said. “Better than good, all things considered.”

Seraina took his hand in both of hers and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. “And you will feel even better soon. The worst is over.” She turned to the old man. “Gildas, give him some broth.”

Gildas cleared his throat. “I already did.”

“He needs more,” Seraina said. “I can feel it in his heart rhythms.”

The old man grunted. “Very well. He is your patient, after all.” He held out the bowl for Thomas to take. “But if he needs more he should be strong enough to feed himself.”

Thomas began sipping at it slowly, and his hands shook at first, but once the liquid reached his stomach he drank in greedy gulps. Before he could empty the bowl, Seraina laughed and reached out her hand to cover his own. She took the broth from him and he fell back into the bed.

“That is enough,” she said. “For now. I can see Gildas is about to throw a fit.”

“How long have I been here? And, for that matter, where is here?” Thomas asked, glancing around at their cave-like shelter of tree branches.

“Six days,” Seraina said. “We are only a few miles from the hollow in Kussnacht where you found me. You were too injured to move any further. But no need to worry. We are well-hidden. Leopold’s men could never find us here.” The words bubbled out of her and she seemed to take great delight in wiping the remains of broth from Thomas’s chin with the sleeve of her dress.

Six days? Thomas clenched his fingers and flexed his leg muscles. They responded well and did not feel like they had been inactive for six days.

Gildas seemed to sense what was going through Thomas’s mind. “Seraina exercised your limbs for you, when you could not. Your recovery may seem miraculous to you, but it is nothing of the sort. It is thanks to Seraina’s hands keeping your blood flowing from your heart to your extremities and back again.”

Thomas stopped flexing his thigh muscles and was suddenly very aware of how naked he was under the lambskin blanket. He looked at Seraina.

“You have my gratitude,” he said. “I hope it was not too… much trouble.”

She shrugged. “You would have done the same for me, I am sure.”

Thomas caught the trace of a smile on her lips before his eyes dropped to his hands. A breeze rustled the walls of their shelter, and a few green needles drifted down onto his bed. He was grateful to have something to focus upon.

“And my clothes…?” he said, to no one in particular.

“I burned them,” Seraina said. “They were ruined and bore the stink of memories best forgotten.” Her eyes dimmed for just a moment, and then flared to life again like a candle burning too hot for a thumb and finger to extinguish. She pointed to the sack on the ground. “I have brought you all new clothing. It is time to make some new memories.”

Her words came too late for Thomas. His mind had latched onto the colossal form of his boyhood friend lying still and filthy in a dark prison cell. Thomas closed his eyes to shut it out, but that was a mistake, for the image only grew more real. He could see Pirmin’s swollen face, beaten beyond recognition. Bruises and great purple welts in the shape of hobnailed boots lined his chest and ribcage, and his once muscular arm lay blackened at his side, seeping puss and a foul, cloudy liquid. He snapped his eyes open before his mind could force him to relive the rotting stench that went along with the death of his best friend.

Thomas looked at Seraina and worked the dryness from his mouth. “And Pirmin? Do you know what became of his body?”

Seraina nodded. “Noll saw to him, but do not worry about that now. You should focus on your own recovery.”

Thomas pushed himself up on one elbow. “Was he buried on holy ground? I saw to his shrivening, but it would all be for naught if he is put to rest anywhere but church land.”

“I have not yet visited his grave,” Seraina said softly. “But I am sure Noll would have seen to it.”

Thomas grimaced as he raised himself higher. “I must go and see for myself. Will you take me there?”

He attempted to swing a leg out from under his blanket but the movement pulled at his stitches. Pain swept up his side and his head pounded.

Seraina placed her hands on his shoulders. When she spoke her words were soft but firm. “I will take you, in time. But not until you are strong enough.”

Thomas resisted for only a moment before he felt his strength drained away by the effort. He collapsed back into the blankets and closed his eyes until the throbbing in his skull subsided. He had to see Pirmin’s resting place. He would not risk his friend being turned away at Saint Peter’s Gate because Thomas had neglected his duties. But, he also knew his limits.

He opened his eyes and stared at the green canopy above. “Tomorrow, then,” he said.

Seraina leaned back and lifted her hands from his shoulders. “That is not for us to decide. You have been through a great deal and we must allow the Weave time to welcome you back into her fold.”

“I will be capable of travel tomorrow,” Thomas said.

They stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills, until Gildas spoke up. “Ready or not, he means to set out tomorrow, Seraina. I suggest we be prepared to accompany him.”

Later that afternoon, with a little prodding from Gildas, Seraina agreed to let Thomas stand. After pulling on his new breeches, Thomas stood with Seraina’s help. With his arm around her shoulders, the two of them shuffled between the bed and fire until a light sheen covered Thomas’s brow and the breath rattled in his chest.

Gildas and Oppid sat together on the ground and watched. The old man, with his back pressed up against the trunk of the tree, chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass. The intense way the pair eyed Thomas made him nervous, but he tried to dismiss the feeling and concentrate on taking one painful step after another. After all, who would not be uncomfortable limping about in front of a giant wolf?

When Seraina finally eased Thomas back into his bed, he grunted with relief. As darkness settled in, Gildas stoked the fire and they ate a simple meal of cheese, blackberries, and crunchy white tubers Thomas had never before seen. Although suspicious at first, he found them to be delicious and, because of their high water content, thirst quenching.

“He eats well. That, at least, is a good sign,” Gildas said.

Seraina smiled at Thomas and nodded. “His body has begun to take over the healing process. I suppose I am no longer needed. Of course, I suspect someone will have to help him into his boots in the morning.”

Thomas smiled weakly. The exercise had exhausted him, and his body demanded sleep as it attempted to digest the simple meal. He fought off the closing of his eyes once, but could not find the strength to resist when they shut a second time.

Later, he was woken by a hair-raising howl that belonged in the coldest hours of a full-moon night. Confused and disoriented, Thomas tried to sit up. He clutched at weapons that were not there.

But Seraina was. She stood over him and placed a hand on his bare shoulder.

“Shh… it is only Oppid,” she said.

There was still enough light from the fire for Thomas to make out the fine features of her face, and of course, her eyes. “Lay back now…”

Somewhere outside their forest shelter, Oppid cried out to his kin once more. This time it was longer and, it seemed to Thomas, filled with anguish. Despite the comforting sound of Seraina’s voice, and the warmth of her hand on his skin, Thomas felt a chill roll up his spine.

Sleep finally overtook Thomas, for Oppid did not howl again. Nor did any wolf answer his calls.

 

Chapter 5

The meeting chamber was on the uppermost floor of Salzburg Castle. It was a long, rectangular room with high ceilings and smooth leather over the lower half of the walls. Wooden panels with intricately carved golden rosettes covered the wall’s upper reaches. At one end of the room, upholstered benches lined the three walls. At the moment, a half-dozen men sat on them, doing their best to appear comfortable and relaxed.

The architect had had a good sense of court politics, and Leopold appreciated the irony of the room. The horseshoe seating arrangement allowed no obvious head of the table position and every person in the room was able to press his back up against a wall. The design was meant to put members at ease, but Leopold thought everyone looked small and feral the way their eyes darted around at one another when he entered the room. One by one they slid themselves up their respective walls and stood to greet the Duke.

There was not a prince among them, Leopold noted. They had all sent stewards or marshals on their behalf, as was the minimum requirement when summoned to a war council by another prince. Leopold had expected as much. The other princes had no love for Leopold, or loyalty for that matter. But they would obey the King’s Law. However, there was one man present Leopold had not expected to see: Sir Henri of Hunenberg.

Only one person remained seated: a portly man of late middle years, but with the powder-gray hair of someone much older. His deep red robes splayed onto the bench on either side and contrasted with the dark leather of the walls. He made no effort to leave his seat in the center of the horseshoe.

Leopold briefly acknowledged the greetings of the other men then strode directly to the Archbishop.

“Duke Leopold,” he said holding out a hand bearing only one single ring of gold, but mounted with an almond-sized gem.

Leopold dropped to one knee and kissed the ring. “My dear Archbishop,” Leopold said, raising his head. He seemed to notice the red robes for the first time. “What is this, your lordship? Has the Pope finally welcomed you into his house and promoted you to a cardinal?”

The Archbishop eventually smiled at Leopold, but it took some time to appear on his lips, and there it died without ever reaching his eyes. The Arse-bishop of Salzburg, as Leopold liked to call him, held the position of Legatus Natus. It permitted him to wear red, although a different shade than that of a cardinal, even in the presence of the Pope.

“Your eyes deceive you,” the Archbishop said. He held one arm out to the side. “This is not the scarlet of a cardinal. Merely the red vesture of my station.”

Leopold squinted. “Ah, so it is. Now that I look more closely I see that it is a much deeper shade. My mistake. Still, I am sure your time must be near. Frankly, I do not know how you do it.”

“Do what, exactly?” the Archbishop asked.

“Labor in the shadows of the church, of course. I should think it would drive most men to the brink of insanity to devote one’s life to a cause and never be justly recognized for it.”

“On the contrary. I am the First Bishop of all German lands. His Eminence has entrusted me to preside over the Princes of the Holy Roman Empire. I imagine you, better than most, can appreciate the significance of this.”

“It seems you have lost half your flock, then. For half of the princes side with Louis the Bavarian,” Leopold said.

“For the time being, perhaps. But they will come to reason, for Frederich is the rightful King. I have the utmost confidence that, with our help,” the Archbishop made a grand sweeping gesture around the room, “your brother will prevail.”

“I am sure he will,” Leopold said. “But that could be years in the making. In the meantime, we have a responsibility to our future King to ensure he has a kingdom left to rule once Louis is defeated.”

“Of course, Duke Leopold. Is that not why all of us are here today? Come, take your seats councilors.”

There was a commotion on the other side of the heavy chamber door. Words in raised voices were exchanged, followed by a short period of silence. Then someone eased the door open. The Archbishop’s Chief Steward, the man who had met Leopold and Klaus at the entrance to High-town, stepped into the room.

Every man in the room stared at him. To his credit, he stood at attention, unflinching, looking straight ahead, and waited to be acknowledged.

“Well,” the Archbishop said. “What is it?”

“A messenger, my lord, he—”

The Archbishop waved him away. “I will see him after we are done here.”

“He is a King’s Eagle, my lord.”

The room went from quiet to complete silence.

“Show him in, of course,” the Archbishop said.

The steward had just enough time to open the door, before a bearded man garbed all in black, with a huge yellow eagle emblazoned on his chest strode through. His hair and face were coated in dust from the road, and streaked darker in places wet from sweat. He took two steps into the room; large clumps of mud fell from his boots. He dropped to one knee, and locked his eyes on the floor. The only thing about him that moved, were the saddlebags that swayed off one shoulder. As was the custom of all King’s Eagles, he kept his messages, and anything else of value, in two small bags joined together with a flat piece of leather. That way, when he changed horses at an outpost, no time was wasted in transferring his supplies to a fresh mount. If his horse died from exhaustion, the Eagle was expected to take his saddlebags and continue on foot until he could expropriate a horse from someone. And if he should ever lose his bags, well, there was a reason for the saying ‘a bagless King’s Eagle, shall fly no more.’

“You bring the King’s word?” the Archbishop asked.

The man reached into one of his saddlebags and produced a small scroll. He stood, asking permission of no one, and stretched out the roll between his hands. In a strong, clear voice, he began to read.

 

Princes of the Realm and Loyalists of the Holy Roman Empire:

 

We are beset by dark times, for treachery approaches from all sides. Pretenders threaten to usurp our Divine Right to Rule.

I am forced to take up arms against my own cousin, who I am convinced, acts upon misinformation supplied by unscrupulous advisers. Meanwhile, on the other side of the Empire, in Further Austria, you are faced with your own challenge; an open rebellion by the peasants of the Forest Regions.

You may be tempted to consider your situation less grand, or not as worthy, as my own. However, if this were truly so, I would not have taken the time to send this decree.

On the surface, this rebellion appears to be nothing more than mountain peasants laying claim to Habsburg lands and defiling property of the monks at Einsiedeln. But this is no benign threat and I urge you, do not take it lightly. Much is at risk.

From Paris, comes word of a diseased class who call themselves “bourgeois”. Their guilds grow in power and greed everyday, threatening to topple the Divine Order, the very pillars upon which society is built. These mercers would raise themselves up and be your equals. Mark my words. This movement is a plague waiting to spread.

If we stand by and allow the peasants of Schwyz, Uri, and Unterwalden to take even one farmer’s field, we are remiss in our duties as Lords of this Land. For, in the end, they will only succeed in abusing God’s gardens and destroying themselves while doing so. But even worse, by not acting, we are in direct defiance of God’s wishes. For, by His Word, “Kings are to rule the hands of men, and the Church, their hearts”.

I deeply regret my absence at your council, but as you know I fight another battle. The Empire faces war on two fronts, and neither poses a more dangerous threat than the other.

As these are my thoughts, I exert my right as your vassal lord, and call upon each and every one of you to fulfill your oaths of fealty. It is my wish that you raise from your lands the prescribed number of infantry and mounted knights as set out in your Oath to the Throne, and make them available to my brother Leopold, the Sword of Habsburg, at a place and time of his choosing.

It may be Habsburg lands today, but mark the words of your King, if this threat is not properly addressed, tomorrow it will be yours.

 

The messenger cleared his throat and looked up. He threw his shoulders back and drew himself to full height.

“Signed and dated by his Grace, Frederich of Habsburg, King of the Germans, and Rightful Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire,” he said.

The room was silent. The Archbishop beckoned the Eagle to him and accepted the scroll. He studied it with narrowed eyes. Eventually, he nodded.

“It is indeed the King’s seal. I did not know your brother was capable of such eloquence, Duke Leopold.”

Of course he is not. They are my words, and my scribe Bernard’s script. You and I both know it.

“Unlike myself, Frederich was gifted with a golden tongue. I have always envied him that,” Leopold said.

Even you, my Arse-bishop, cannot refute the Royal Seal. I am sure it will drive you mad wondering how I got my hands on that.

The old cleric handed the scroll back to the Eagle. “You discredit yourself. I am sure you have your own set of talents that we have yet come to appreciate, Duke Leopold. Or, would you prefer I call you Sword of the Habsburgs?”

One of the stewards chuckled until he saw the young Duke looking at him. It was the Count of Kyburg’s man. Leopold fixed his face in his memory.

A deep voice broke in on the conversation. “My lords, may I have leave to speak?” Count Henri of Hunenberg asked.

Leopold was glad the man had spoke up. A veteran of the wars in the Holy Lands, Henri was the only lord in the room, except for the Arse-bishop, who was there in person to represent his own title and lands. But, he looked uncomfortable in the council chambers. He had spent too much time in the Levant and seemed out of sorts with court politics.

Why was he here, anyway? None of the other counts or princes had come themselves. Why should he?

Leopold suddenly recalled that he still owed Henri partial payment for one of his estates near the Gotthard Pass. Surely the man had better sense than to come looking for a handout here. Leopold would pay him when he had the funds, and not a moment before.

“Of course, Count. You require no man’s permission to speak in this council. We are grateful for your presence,” Leopold said. He gestured for the man to retake his seat.

Count Henri bowed his head but remained standing. “We all understand the King’s message. But we have not yet heard from the man who is to command this army we raise. Perhaps you could tell us what you plan, Duke Leopold.”

“Plan? I think it should be obvious. I will march into Schwyz, punish those responsible for the attack on the Einsiedeln monastery, and rest up my men. From there, I march to Altdorf, retake the fortress, kill all who resist, and put the mountain peasants to work repairing the damage they have caused.”

“Enslave them, you mean.”

“Ah, Henri. I believe I know where this is headed. You knew some of the rebels in Outremer, did you not? You fought alongside them and counted them friends, I imagine.”

“Aye. I knew both Pirmin and Thomas. But friend is not the exact word I would use to describe Thomas. Pirmin maybe, but not Thomas.”

“And what of Hermann Gissler? The man this Thomas Schwyzer cut down before my very eyes. Would you count him as a friend, if he yet lived?”

Count Henri shifted his weight and stared at the Duke. “I just think there may be a better solution to this mess than marching through those villages with a full blown army. I have seen what an army can do to a land and its people. It will take years for them to recover.”

“I appreciate your forthrightness and will take your concerns under advisement. Now, I trust you will heed the commands of your King?”

Henri cast his eyes downward at his hands. They were heavy, with thick digits and a crescent shape to them that looked permanent. He let them drop to his side and one slowly curled into a fist.

“I am bound to the Crown for fifty knights and fifty infantry, and I will honor it. However, I will be commanding the men myself. As is my right,” Henri said.

“Of course. Having a man with your experience in my army will be most welcome,” Leopold said, and he meant it. Henri may have a sentimental streak but when it came time to fight for his King, he would do what was required. His sense of honor would permit nothing less.

He did a quick mental calculation. Adding Henri’s soldiers to those the other lords would be required to furnish, came to just shy of two thousand men. Leopold’s own force consisted of three thousand, and how many would the Archbishop be required to contribute? Another two thousand? Perhaps three? The Salzburg Barracks was home to full-time, battle-hardened soldiers, who had seen active duty all over the Empire. They would be the best trained of them all. It was shaping up to be the ultimate punitive force.

“Archbishop. Do you recall what the size of your contributory force shall be?” Leopold asked. He kept his eyes wide and innocent, and was proud of himself for not allowing a trace of smugness to creep into his voice.

The older man steepled his fingers in front of his face.

Was the old goat actually hiding a smirk?

The Archbishop opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped himself for a moment before finally continuing on. He looked like a man about to eat a roast pheasant, but could not quite decide which wing to tear off first.

“Regrettably, all of Salzburg’s military forces are already committed to the King’s cause. I have my own writ from the King that I must follow. You see, Salzburg is to be kept as a place of strength should Frederich need to withdraw from the war with the Bavarian for a time. The King has commanded me to ensure all of Salzburg’s soldiers are available to him at a moment’s notice. All of them. God forbid that should ever happen, of course.”

You dung-eating buggerer of….

“So the answer to your question, Duke Leopold, is regrettably, not a one.”

The Archbishop leaned back into the leather of his bench and crossed his arms. He shook his head in a display of regret, but the thin smile on his lips told another story entirely.

***

“In all your years, have you ever known a more repugnant, holier than thou, greedy, arse licker? Have you?” Duke Leopold asked.

“Yes, my lord. Several,” Klaus said.

Dressed in only his nightshirt, Leopold paced laps around his assigned room. Klaus was sure it must be the smallest guest quarters in Salzburg Castle. He thought of mentioning that to the Duke, but quickly changed his mind. Klaus did not know of another man Duke Leopold hated more than the Archbishop of Salzburg, and fanning those flames would not be wise.

Leopold puffed up his face and squinted his eyes. “So the answer, Duke Leopold, is not a one. How long did he practice to get that pompous tone just right? And what cruel bastard ever decided someone could be both a prince and a bishop?”

“Your grandfather, I believe,” Klaus said. God rest his soul.

“Well, that explains it. Yet another failing of dear old grand pappy that I have to live with. If I did not need the Arsebishop’s cavalry I would have spit in his face right then and there. And watched it drip down his double chin onto his precious red robes. Really, why should a cleric be in charge of some of the best soldiers in the Empire? Who decided that?”

“Your grandfather as well,” Klaus said.

“The man was truly an idiot.”

Klaus said nothing. He stood ramrod straight, with his hands behind his back, and eyes in front.

“Well, what do we do now Klaus? Go back to his holiness tomorrow and beg for his cavalry?”

Klaus shook his head. “We do not need his soldiers, my lord.”

“No, we do not need them, Klaus. I want them. When we march into Schwyz and Altdorf, we must do so with a full display of Habsburg might. I want drummers, trumpet men, infantry, and if I can’t have the Sturmritter, I want the next best thing. And that, sadly, is the Arsebishop’s cavalry. And now that he has told me I cannot have them I want them even more!”

Leopold grabbed a pitcher of wine from the bedside table and filled a mug. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed it. He was about to take a drink and then groaned and threw it against the wall.

“Probably poisoned,” he said. “Would that not be the perfect end to a perfect day? Or the perfect week for that matter? What do you think, Klaus?”

Klaus paused before answering. “I think the Ars… Archbishop did not believe the messenger was a true Eagle.”

“I could care less what he thinks, as he obviously does not spend much time catering to my wants. He does not care if Louis trounces my brother in this war. He will still be the High Bishop for the German Empire. The only person’s favor he really needs, is that of the Pope.”

Leopold paused. He stared at Klaus and cocked his head. Klaus had seen that look many a time. He let out a deep breath, and waited.

“The Pope…” Leopold repeated. “Klaus, why is it that I get some of my best ideas while yelling at you?”

Klaus gave no indication that he had heard the question. But he had, in fact, heard everything. Not many men could say they had served two kings and outlived them both. Klaus suspected he knew which plan Leopold was about to hatch.

It was going to be a long night.

 

Chapter 6

They set out mid-morning with Thomas riding on their one horse and Seraina and Gildas walking alongside. Thomas was grateful that Gildas had sent the wolf away earlier when he saw how much Oppid upset the horse, for Thomas doubted he had the strength to control a fidgety animal. And Gildas too, mumbling something about towns filled with small-minded people, seemed to relax when Oppid bolted off into the woods.

They emerged from the trees onto a road some time later. Thomas knew it was for his sake that they avoided the forest trails but he wished Seraina would stop looking at him every time he winced or shifted to a more bearable position on his mount. He kept one arm pressed tight to his side, as it lessened the jostling of his stitches. He was weak, he knew that. But the pounding in his skull had subsided to a tolerable level and he was actually beginning to feel the first pangs of hunger.

“Do you need to stop for a rest?” Seraina asked.

“No.”

“We have time. I know of a place we can spend the night and push on to Schwyz at first light.”

“I said no. I would see us at Sutter’s inn before dusk.”

“Very well. But we will stop here for a few moments. You may not be tired but your horse is. You ride with all the life of an iron anvil.”

Thomas began to grunt back a reply but the vibration of speech sent a shiver of pain rippling up his side. He settled for a dark look.

Gildas stopped and leaned on his staff. “A rest sounds good. You set a swifter pace than I am accustomed. Whatever happened to the little short-legged girl of yesteryear that used to have to run to keep up with me?”

Seraina laughed. “Why I willed my legs to grow, of course, because I was sure there must be more to see in the world than thinning white hair and a crooked back.”

“It seems that a great deal of that will was directed at your tongue as well,” Gildas said.

Seraina was still smiling as she looked at the road before them. It rose up a steep hill and turned to the right.

“I think there are heidelberries nearby. Gildas, help Thomas off his horse and I will be back in a few minutes.”

She was already several strides up the road before either man had a chance to voice their thoughts. Thomas watched as her lithe legs carried her away from them. Her strides were long and graceful, and although she was no taller than an average woman, the way she moved was more feline than human. She crested the hill and, with one last glint of sunshine off her auburn hair, Seraina disappeared around the bend.

Thomas realized he had been holding his breath. He looked down and saw Gildas staring at him. The old man shook his head.

“She is not for you, Thomas Schwyzer.”

“What are you talking about?” Thomas met the old man’s stare with one of his own.

“Deny it if you will. But your eyes are the scouts of your heart, not its spies. They cannot conceal what you feel.”

Thomas looked down at his horse’s neck. “You are full of crazy talk, old man.” He swung his right leg over and eased himself to the ground. His pulse beat at a furious pace.

Gildas looked up the road.

“I tell you this to spare you. Not because of some fatherly need to protect a daughter.” He turned back and Thomas tried to avoid the man’s fierce blue eyes, but they were a current that he could not fight against.

“Seraina is much more than a daughter to this world,” Gildas said. His eyes softened to reveal a sadness that had perhaps always been present, but hidden. “Your priests tell us women are sin. My own people view them differently. We say woman is life.”

“Then what do you say of men?” Thomas asked.

Gildas smiled. “Man is the servant of life. Fitting is it not?”

Thomas shook his head. “I do not understand what you are trying to…,”

Thomas blinked, and caught a sense of motion from the top of the hill. At the same time, Gildas too seemed to register a change of some sort, for he turned and looked up the road.

Seraina rounded the corner in the road and was coming toward them at an all-out sprint. She slipped as she started down the hill, but without slowing down, she reached out one hand, pushed off the ground to regain her balance, and continued running. The sight of her reddish-brown hair, streaming behind her as she ran, had a much different effect on Thomas now than it did earlier. It filled him with dread.

He reached to his belt for his knife, but it came away empty. He looked to his horse, but realized its back was bare, save for Ruedi’s crossbow wrapped in a sheepskin blanket. The quality weapon was worth a small fortune, but now, with no bolts, it was worse than worthless. But even if he had a quarrel, Thomas knew he would be unable to cock the weapon without the assistance of a belt hook. The heavy draw weight of the string would sever his fingers before he could pull it even half way.

“A sword,” he said, looking at Gildas. “I need a weapon.” Gildas stepped away from him and shook his head. Thomas’s eyes locked onto the walking stick Gildas held. It was crooked and worn smooth from a lifetime of use, but being made from hard, solid oak, it was heavy enough. He reached out and tore it from the old man’s grasp before he could protest.

Seraina was there much sooner than Thomas thought possible. She walked the last few paces with her hands on her hips to catch her breath. Her cheeks were flushed and the sides of her hair wet with sweat. One unruly strand curled over a cheek and fluttered with every exhalation.

“Habsburg soldiers,” she said. “And I think they saw me. Quickly! We must take to the trees.”

Gildas put his arm on her shoulder. “It is too late for that now.” He nodded toward the road. Two riders, the sun glinting off their helmets, trotted toward them. They seemed to be in no rush, but they were obviously focused on the three travelers standing directly in their path.

“We must run,” Seraina said.

“We cannot.” Gildas nodded toward Thomas. “He is in no shape to flee. I doubt he could even get back onto his horse in time.”

“He is right,” Thomas said. “You and Gildas go. I will be fine. They will not know who I am.”

Seraina’s voice rose to a frantic pitch. “Are you mad? Of course they will know who you are. You killed the Duke’s soldiers and stole one of his horses!”

Thomas looked at his mount. The Habsburg brand jumped out at him. Cringing, he pulled the bundle holding Ruedi’s crossbow forward so it covered the mark. By the time he turned around, he was greeted by the pattering of hooves on hard earth. He tightened his grip on the walking stick.

“You there. What cause do you have to run from your Duke’s patrol?”

Gildas stepped forward. “Please forgive my daughter, my lords. She is mute and scares easily. She mistook you for highwaymen and rushed back to warn us.”

The riders pulled up before them. The one that spoke was much younger than the other, and the way he barked out his words, made Thomas think he was eager to impress the veteran he rode with.

“Show me your trade pass,” the younger man said.

“Trade papers, my lord?” Gildas said.

“This road is closed to all but those certified by the Trade Commissioner.”

“Since when?” Thomas asked. “I have not heard of these roads being off limits to locals.” He regretted speaking almost immediately. Not because the younger man turned on him instantly, but more so because he felt the older soldier also take an interest in him.

“Do you expect to know all that transpires in the Commissioner’s office?” the young soldier said. “Are we to knock on every hovel’s door and deliver each command of his lordship personally? Who are you, man, to speak so out of place?”

“He is my daughter’s husband, my lord,” Gildas said, shooting a scowl at Thomas. “He is a miserable man at the best of times, and often speaks out of turn to make up for his wife’s eternal silence.”

To emphasize the old druid’s story, Seraina punched Thomas in the shoulder and flashed her teeth at him.

“Well, if he speaks again without my leave, I will have his tongue at my belt. That should make the conversations at their dinner table more balanced.”

He chuckled at his own threat, and Thomas forced his eyes to look at the ground. The older soldier nudged his horse forward and slowly began circling around to the rear of Thomas’s own mount.

The young man continued questioning Gildas. “If you have no trade papers, then you did not pass the checkpoint. How did you get on this road?”

“Not far from here, there is a trail in the woods that leads to our farm,” Gildas said, his words seemed especially slow to Thomas, and as he spoke he stepped toward the young man, holding his hands low and out to the side. “This path meanders between lichen-coated rocks, and under trees draped in giant-beard. The sun appears, now and then, and when it does, its rays warm your skin, and if you listen carefully, very carefully, the sound of running water hums in the background…”

Gildas continued speaking and if Thomas had been standing closer to the old man he doubted he would have been able to focus on anything but his words. But, with effort, he shook off the sound of Gildas’s voice. He took hold of his horse’s halter, then angled himself toward the other soldier walking his horse behind them.

“A word of caution, my lord,” Thomas said. “This horse likes to kick out at others that come too close from the rear.”

The soldier drew his sword. “I shall have to be careful, then,” he said. “What do you carry under this blanket?”

Seraina stiffened beside Thomas. He could tell it was all she could do to hold back her words.

“Firewood,” Thomas said.

“Firewood,” the soldier repeated, like it was some exotic foreign word.

“And a few onions,” Thomas said.

The soldier nodded. And then thrust his sword point between the blanket and the rope securing the bundle in place. The rope sprang away, the horse skittered sideways a step, and the load slid off and crashed to the ground.

Ruedi’s Genoese-made war bow flipped out from its concealment and skidded to a stop at Thomas’s feet. The veteran’s eyes picked up on the horse’s Habsburg brand in the same instant.

He raised his sword, and then screamed in pain.

Seraina was on his other side. She had thrust her hand behind his knee and had a hold of something, a ligament or tendon, or God only knew what, but whatever it was, the soldier’s face was pale with agony. He dropped his sword and leaned in his saddle to get away from her. Thomas shuffled over and obliged him. He grabbed his arm and yanked him from his horse. Thomas grimaced as his stitches stretched to their limit, but held.

Thomas heard the ring of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. He looked over his shoulder as the young soldier, seemingly no longer under Gildas’s trance, kicked the old man to the ground.

Seraina screamed the druid’s name and rushed to help him. Thomas gripped the walking stick in his hands and brought it down on the head of the soldier lying at his feet. He hit him again for good measure, then turned to help Gildas and Seraina.

But he knew he was too far away.

As Seraina ran at the two of them, the young soldier, with a wild look in his eyes, hefted his sword high above his head. Gildas, having pushed himself up to his hands and knees, looked up as the sword began its downward arc toward his neck.

Then Thomas saw fear twist the ears of the soldier’s horse. Its eyes went wide, and before it could bolt, its master was carried clean out its saddle by a blowing cloud of white fur.

Oppid’s momentum carried him and the soldier twenty feet away from the terror-stricken horse. The white wolf had his massive jaws wrapped over top the soldier’s helmet, so he lived long enough to know he was in a nightmare. The man screamed as Oppid stood over him, snarling, his yellow teeth dripping streams of thick saliva. Then the wolf snapped him up by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and shook the soldier back and forth like he was nothing more than an old dusty blanket. The cracks of his neck and spine splintering made Thomas look away.

The older soldier let out a groan, so Thomas hit him again with the walking stick. Then he retrieved the soldier’s sword and turned back to finish the man, but Seraina stepped in front and put her hand on Thomas’s chest.

“Thomas, no,” she said.

“He will bring others,” Thomas said. “They said there was a checkpoint near here.”

“We have two more horses, now. We will be in Schwyz before they can send others,” Gildas said.

Thomas watched Oppid drag the broken corpse of the other soldier into the woods. “God have mercy. Is he going to do what I think he is?”

“At times, nature may appear cruel,” Gildas said. “But look at it through Oppid’s eyes. True cruelty lay in letting a perfectly good set of entrails rot in the sun.” The old man’s eyes sparkled. “Come, Thomas Schwyzer. Let us be on our way, and leave an old wolf his privacy. For, as those of your faith are fond of saying, it is God’s Will.”

 

As they came over the last series of low, velvety green slopes, and Schwyz lay at the head of the valley below, Gildas slowed his horse and began to stammer excuses for not going any further.

“Why not come in with us?” Seraina asked. “Sutter has a warm, comfortable inn with even a few private rooms, and the best chamois stew—”.

Gildas shook his head and the downy white hair of his beard and head floated in the breeze. “No. It is time for me and Oppid to be on our way.”

He slid off his horse, stroked her neck once, and whispered something in her ear that sent her trotting off back the way they had come. Thomas and Seraina also dismounted and, after Thomas removed Ruedi’s war bow, they too sent their mounts away. They would not risk any harm coming to Sutter by bringing the Duke’s horses into his stable.

Gildas whistled and Oppid loped out of the woods, turning his massive head warily from side to side as he crossed the open grassland between them.

“Luck is not one of my beliefs. But, I will wish it to you all the same, Thomas Schwyzer.” The old man held out his arm and Thomas took it.

“How long will you be gone?” Seraina asked. Her voice was small and Thomas could hear the fear of abandonment in her words.

Gildas shrugged. Oppid was at his side now, and the old man absently grabbed and released great handfuls of the wolf’s white coat. “As long as it takes. The others are scattered and will be difficult to find. But I will. And when the time is right, you must meet us on the Mythen.”

Seraina nodded once, and then dropped her chin. The old man looked at her and his face softened.

“I will be back, my child. Remember, I too have no small touch of the sight, and that much I have seen.”

He reached out and lifted her head. She looked up and her eyes shimmered. A tear broke free and crawled down one cheek. The sight of her in pain made Thomas avert his gaze.

“Ah, Seraina. Your eyes remind me so much of the waters we lived on when you were a child. Do you remember our lake?”

“Yes… I think so,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. “But only bits and pieces. I was so young.”

“And so full of questions for one just learning to speak. Why, why, why! How, how, how! It could have been the most peaceful place in the world, if not for your endless nattering.”

Seraina smiled. “I do remember. I was happy there,” she said.

“You were, and so was I. Happier than at any other moment in my long years. And when I look at you now, it gladdens me to see that green lake reflected so clearly in your eyes. Somehow, you have preserved the same wonder and innocence as back then, but like those waters, I see the strength of steel as well. There has never been a prouder man, than the one that stands across from you now.”

Seraina hugged him and buried her face against his white robe. Her shoulders shuddered and he kissed the top of her head. After some time, he eased her to arm’s length.

“Come, now. You will upset the wolf. It is best you say your goodbyes.”

Seraina wiped once more at her eyes and nodded. She called the wolf by name, then dropped to her knees and threw her arms around his neck, her fingers not even close to touching. She forced a laugh and whispered strange words into his ear.

Thomas became aware that the old man had locked his eyes on him. All traces of the kindness that had been in them only moments before was gone.

“Look after her,” Gildas said. “As she has done for you. And remember what we discussed.”

“It was not much of a discussion, as I recall,” Thomas said.

 

Seraina stared after Gildas and Oppid for a long while after they disappeared into the forest. Finally, she and Thomas began walking down the slope toward the village.

“I do not understand why Gildas refused to stay at Sutter’s for even one night,” Thomas said. “Surely a comfortable bed and a hot meal would do the old man some good. Is he in that much of a hurry?”

Seraina held out one hand and dragged it through the waist-high grass. It was late afternoon and Thomas was beginning to feel the autumn chill through his cloak, but Seraina did not seem to notice.

“Gildas does not like to be around people much. Even the smallest village unnerves him,” Seraina said.

“He cares about you, though. How did you come to be raised by him?”

“He bought me,” Seraina said.

“Bought you? Such as at a slave market?”

“You are one to talk,” she said. “It was not like that. I was only a baby when Gildas found me. My parents were very poor and already had five children, so Gildas convinced them to give me up.”

“Why did he choose you over one of the others?”

Seraina smiled. “Because I was special. Can you not see that?” Her spirits seemed to be improving.

Thomas shrugged. “He may have been able to get two, or even three, of the other children for the same price as one special one.”

Seraina slapped him on the arm. Thankfully, it was his uninjured one.

“We are a pair, you and me,” Seraina said. “Each sold to the highest bidder. I wonder what our lives would be like if that had not happened…”

That was a question Thomas had never once asked himself. He remembered almost nothing about his life before the Long March to the port of Genoa, where he and the other Schwyzer children were loaded onto a ship bound for the Holy Lands.

Sometimes, late at night, he would catch a glimpse of a tall man cutting wood, or a woman with sandy hair, standing in a black earth garden and wiping her brow with the back of her arm. But they were fleeting images, just as likely to be based on dreams as reality.

Perhaps the only true memory he could claim of those early years, was that of a shivering boy trying to spread a small blanket over the half-frozen bodies of his dead parents. Since that was what he usually saw whenever he attempted to remember his parents, he eventually stopped trying altogether.

“My parents died when I was very young,” Thomas said. He was not sure why he had said that.

“I know,” Seraina said.

When he looked at her with confusion on his face, she added, ”You talked out loud, and often, when you were stricken with the blood fever.”

“Ah,” he said.

“In fact, I think you talked more when you were at death’s feet than you do now.”

“Perhaps my silent nature is the reason the Hospitallers paid more for me than Gildas did for you,” Thomas said. He found himself smiling, and if the scar on the left side of his face tightened, he did not notice.

“Oh, ho! The fox bares his teeth,” Seraina said. “Speaking of Gildas, what was it that you and he discussed when I was gone?” If anyone looked like a fox at that moment, it was Seraina.

Thomas shook his head and tried to keep his eyes locked on the thatched roof of Sutter’s house in the distance.

“Was it about me?” Seraina asked, innocently. But her grin and the tilt of her head told Thomas she knew that it was.

***

Seraina saw Sutter cutting wood behind the inn as she and Thomas approached across a field. He straightened up when he saw them coming and, after shielding his eyes from the sun to get a better look, shouted something toward the kitchen window. Within seconds, both Vreni and her daughter Mera ran out the back door.

Seraina left Thomas behind and ran to meet the two women with tearful embraces all the way around. By then Sutter was there, and even the gruff innkeeper wrapped his long arms around Seraina.

Mera had her crying under control by the time Thomas limped up, but one look at him and her pretty features began to waver. She ran at Thomas, as though it were a race to get to him before her tears exploded, and threw her arms around his neck. She got her head on his chest just in time.

Seraina looked on as Thomas held his arms out to the side for an uncomfortable moment, but then in small jerky movements, managed to put them around the girl and comfort her as best he could.

“I am so sorry Thomas,” Mera said. “None of us deserved to have Pirmin taken from us, but you least of all.”

Thomas said nothing, but Seraina was sure she saw his arms squeeze the girl a little tighter.

 

While Vreni and Mera disappeared upstairs to make up two rooms, Seraina and Thomas sat with Sutter at the small kitchen table, since it was the dinner hour and there were a few guests in the main room.

“You have been to Altdorf, then?” Sutter said to Seraina.

She nodded. “More men flock to Noll’s fortress every day, from all corners of the Forest Regions,” Seraina said. “If Leopold comes next year, he will be in for a surprise.”

Sutter’s mouth became hard. “That is good to hear. And what of Landenberg?”

Seraina feared he would ask about the Vogt of Unterwalden. “The Council will meet and decide his fate,” she said.

He looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then lowered his voice to a whisper. “He should be hung.”

Seraina could feel Sutter staring at her, but she could not be sure because her own eyes refused to leave her fingers. “I know how you feel, and if it is any consolation, Noll punished the man. I saw his injuries.”

“That will not stop him from coming right back here and terrorizing us all over again.” He paused. “I have given this some thought. I am going to join the Confederate Army.”

Seraina could not believe what she was hearing, but it was Thomas who responded first.

“No, that is a very poor decision. Look around you, Sutter. You have a business, a family, and both need you more than any band of Melchthal’s. If you go to Altdorf, you throw all of this away.”

“I believe in what Noll is doing,” Sutter said.

“War is for young men,” Thomas said.

“You serve this cause better by staying alive,” Seraina said. “Your family needs you.”

Sutter closed his eyes and massaged his temples with one hand. “You are both right. I am not thinking straight these days.” A dry laugh forced itself from his chest. “I am just a tired, old innkeeper.”

Seraina could tell Sutter was lying by the way he laughed. He was telling them what they wanted to hear. Thomas seemed to sense it as well, for in a rare show of affection, he reached over the table and put his hand on Sutter’s shoulder.

“Do what is best for your family. You will never regret that,” Thomas said.

“What will you do?” Sutter asked.

As Seraina waited for Thomas’s response, bits of her recent vision flashed through her mind.

“I have not given it much thought,” Thomas said, leaning back slowly in his chair.

“You could come stay with us. We need an extra set of hands around the inn.”

Thomas smiled, but there was more sadness about it than joy. He looked around the kitchen.

“Thank you, Sutter. I would like that,” he said. “But I think I had better ask Pirmin first. He was always rather protective over this place.”

While Sutter chuckled at the joke, Seraina looked into Thomas’s dark, almost black, eyes and trembled at what she saw.