Morgarten (Book 2 of the Forest Knights) (2 page)

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.

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.