Morgarten (Book 2 of the Forest Knights) (31 page)

A fine spray added to the red of Thomas’s tunic, but
most of the blood was deflected by the older man’s gray beard. It
collected there for a moment, hidden from sight, but then it welled
up and poured down Klaus’s chest. Without even a whimper, he fell
over backward, his body stiff when it hit the ground. His unseeing
eyes stared at the clouds.

“No!” Leopold screamed and began crawling on his
hands and knees toward Klaus, but Franco reeled him in and
unceremoniously threw him behind his legs. Leopold fell over on his
side, in a fetal position, and with his eyes clenched tighter than
fists, began to moan.

Franco raised his sword and pointed it at
Thomas.

“You will not find my throat so easily,
Hospitaller.” He cut the air with his sword. “Come. Let us duel for
the Prince’s life.”

“Ruedi,” Thomas called out, keeping his eyes on
Franco.

“Cap’n?”

“Shoot this man.”

Ruedi bent over, fastened the hook at his waist onto
his crossbow string, and with a grunt, cocked the war bow by
standing up straight. He pulled a bolt from his belt quiver and set
it to the string.

Franco looked from Ruedi to Thomas, and his lips
curled in disdain.

“You would have your man shoot me?”

“You have something I want,” Thomas said.

“Then fight me for it! I took you for a man of honor
when we first met. Will you prove me wrong now, here, in front of
your men?”

Thomas felt his blood rising. Why should he care
anything for honor?

“I was told my entire life that only the nobility
and knights are capable of true honor. Well, as you may have
noticed, I am neither.” He waved his arm over the men surrounding
them. “There is not a drop of blue blood in any one of us. But what
we do have is loyalty. Loyalty to our countrymen, our children, our
wives and husbands, our friends. So tell me, with all this, what
need do we have of honor?”

Franco was quiet for a long time as he glared at
Thomas.

“Your men have been executing prisoners. And do not
deny it, for I have seen it several times already.”

“I know. I gave the orders. From this day forward,
any man who comes into our lands with intent to do us wrong, must
expect to die if he is caught. That is our law.”

“Peasants, yes, I can understand that. But a noble
man’s ransom could make you a rich man! It makes no sense to kill
him.”

“We do not want your kind’s gold. We wish to be left
alone. So why would we suffer, even for one day, the company of a
man who comes to our door looking to take everything we hold
dear?”

Thomas could see Franco weighing his words. Leopold
tried to crawl away once again, but Franco stepped on his leg to
keep him in place. He stared at Duke Leopold trapped under his
boot, and then met Thomas’s eyes.

“Very well. I will agree to lay down my sword and be
executed, but only if you allow Duke Leopold to live.”

“You negotiate a poor bargain,” Thomas said. “This
is my counter-offer. You will take Leopold from our lands and see
him delivered safely to Habsburg. When his mind has recovered, you
will explain to him that if he ever sets foot within our borders
again, his life will be forfeit. As will the lives of anyone he
brings with him.”

Franco’s eyes narrowed. “You would let us both
go?”

“Someone must tell what happened here today,” Thomas
said. He pointed at Leopold cowering behind Franco’s legs like a
child hiding in his mother’s skirts. “Since he is unlikely to
remember many details, that someone must be you.”

Franco sheathed his sword and pulled Leopold to his
feet. He pushed the young Duke ahead of him, while he walked
behind. He took a few steps and then turned around.

“This is not over. The princes will not let this
stand. Sooner or later, one will work up the courage to march
another army through your valleys.”

Thomas remained silent. What could he say when he
knew Franco was right?

“But when they come,” Franco continued, “Do not look
for me, Schwyzer. For I will not be counted among their
number.”

He turned back to Leopold and gave him another shove
up the road.

***

Seraina stood beside the sacrificial stone with
Oppid at her side. The druids closed around her, chanting, while
Orlina stooped and carefully picked up Gildas’s white robe. The
chanting became softer, and no more intrusive than the sound of a
nearby creek.

Orlina held up the robe and slipped it over
Seraina’s numb shoulders.

“If we are to survive,” Orlina said, “there must be
balance.” She pulled Seraina’s head down gently and kissed her
forehead. Without another word, she turned and began walking down
the Mythen.

Each druid, in turn, followed Orlina’s lead, and
after kissing Seraina on the forehead, they too began winding down
the rocky path. Soon, only Seraina and Oppid stood upon the
Mythen’s summit. She pulled the robe around her shoulders and knelt
next to the white wolf. She wrapped her arms around his thick neck
and stared at Gildas’s walking stick until she could no longer feel
her legs.

The trees told her where to go, but she took her
time. Seraina was in no hurry to see Gildas’s body.

She arrived at the great pile of blown over trees,
and scanned the area. There was no sign of him. She cringed. The
Habsburgs took him, she thought.

But then, from the forest a short distance to the
east, the wind carried to her a voice. A
singing
voice.

Seraina saw the white robe through the trees as she
approached. The druid’s hood was up and he stood over a low mound
of rocks. He continued singing until Seraina was at his side.

His voice was soft and gentle, and the song was one
Seraina did not know the words to, but somehow, she felt it was
perfect. When the man turned to her and took down his hood, she was
sorry the song had come to an end.

“Blessed be the Weave,” he said. It was the man who
had stood beside her in the circle. The one who had held her hand
so firmly. He was pushing the far side of middle life, but his eyes
shone with the wonder of youth.

Much like Gildas’s, she realized. Uncannily so.

He smiled, and looked at the stacked rocks. “He was
my elder brother,” he said.

“I am sorry,” Seraina said. “I never knew he had a
brother.”

The man shrugged. “Gildas was not one to talk about
himself. Being an Eye of the Weave, I suppose he did not allow
himself the time.”

Seraina nodded, and swallowed the emotions building
in her throat. “I never saw him much these last few years. He
always seemed to be on his way somewhere, searching for new
adepts.”

“That is because he was the only one of us who
could. We all have our part to play in the pattern, but Gildas was
the only one who had the ability to identify talent at an age young
enough to nurture it. As he did with you.”

“But I have never found an adept before. I do not
understand why Orlina thinks I can take over Gildas’s duties,”
Seraina said.

“Because Gildas told her that you could.”

“And if I cannot?”

The man chuckled. “Every thread in the Weave has an
end. Time is sure to outlast us all, Seraina. But some threads
twist and wind their way through the pattern of life in such a
complicated and unpredictable manner, that it is virtually
impossible to find where it finishes. I like to think our kind are
one of those.”

Seraina liked the sound of that. She had always felt
in her heart that it was not yet time for this world to say goodbye
to the Helvetii
.
She stared at the grave before her. Gildas
had taught her so much, not just about the Weave, but about herself
as well. She owed it to him to pass on as much as she could.

“I will leave you so you can say your goodbyes,” the
druid said.

“Where do you go now? What will you do?” she
asked.

He scratched at a tooth with his index finger for a
moment. “I think I will compile a manuscript.”

“A book? Druids have never kept written records.
What kind of book?”

“I think I would like… a white one,” he said,
laughing. “Yes! We need more white books to give our people hope
for the future. There are more than enough dark ones already in the
world.”

Seraina could not help but smile at this. “Do you
think it will work?”

He shrugged and held up his hands. “You should ask
yourself that question. Unlike you or Gildas, I do not have the
sight to know what the future holds. My role, is simply one of
support. If you are the Eye of our order, I am but one of many
pieces of skin, trying to hold us all together.”

“Will I ever see you again?” Seraina asked, hoping
the answer was ‘yes’.

He nodded. “Even if you do not want to.”

He held up his hand in farewell, pulled up the hood
of his white robe, and began to walk into the trees. As she watched
the man leave, she noticed how small he looked. Speaking to him up
close, he had given off the energy and stature of a much taller
person.

Just before the druid disappeared into the forest, a
soft breeze rustled his cloak, and as the same wind blew over
Seraina, for the briefest of instants, she swore she could hear the
tinkling of bells.

***

Seraina waited until well after dark, until a time
when she knew the celebration festivities in the Schwyz market
square would be well under way. She put out her small fire and
poured the cauldron of hot herb water that had been simmering over
it into a wooden bucket.

Minutes later, with the bucket of warm water in
hand, she eased open the flap to Thomas’s tent. Still dressed in
his red Hospitaller tunic, he sat on a stool with his weary head in
his hands, staring at a single tallow candle on the small table
before him.

He looked up, his face still streaked with dried
blood and sweat. His mouth fell open, but no words came out. He
made to stand, but when Seraina saw pain flicker across his face,
she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. She pressed him back
down onto his stool and set the bucket down. Then she produced a
clean cloth from the pocket of her white robe, Gildas’s robe,
dipped it in the water, and rung it out. The sound of the water
falling echoed in the silence of the small space.

“Seraina, I—”

She cut him off by putting her finger over his lips,
and then began wiping his face with the hot cloth. He closed his
eyes, and she was thankful he did not speak. For she knew he would
have so many questions. Ones that she could not answer because she
simply did not know.

Why am I here?

She knew she should not have come. Thomas was the
Catalyst, and his time had just begun. He would do things for her
people,
their people
, that she would never dare dream. They
were about to enter a new era, filled with much risk to be sure,
but it would also be one which promised to set her people on a new
path. One with opportunities the like of which they had not seen in
a thousand years. So long as, no one came between the Catalyst and
his gift to sense the Weave’s patterns.

She knew the danger. And yet, she had still
come.

She dropped the cloth into the bucket and a red
cloud billowed out into the scented water. Slowly, she lifted his
tunic over his head. Then she removed his chainmail vest and the
padded cloth below. Finally, she unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it
away. He winced every time she raised his right arm. His sides were
covered in bruises but nothing was broken.

Seraina took out a fresh cloth and, starting at the
hollow below his throat, washed down Thomas’s entire body. When she
was finished, they made love. Neither one of them uttered a single
word.

Afterward, in the coldest hours just before dawn,
with her head resting on his chest, Seraina began to speak. Her
words were heavy with the power of her voice, and she hoped that
with Thomas being so exhausted from the day’s events, she would be
able to make him forget how he felt for her. She would have to deal
with her own feelings at another time.

She had spoken no more than a dozen words, when she
felt Thomas’s finger across her lips.

“I want to remember,” he said. “I know you think you
are doing me a kindness. But if we cannot be together, I do not
wish to lose a single memory of you, Seraina. Painful or not, I
should like to have them to look back on.”

Seraina closed her eyes, but that did nothing to
stop the tears.

A kindness. It was the perfect choice of words, she
thought. For what is love, if not a
perfect
kindness?

“Are you Jodock Schnidrig?” Thomas asked, his voice
rough from weeks alone on the road.

The question felt ridiculous, for even before the
man nodded, Thomas knew the answer. Standing there with his arms
crossed over his massive chest, his pose and stature rivaled that
of the rocky peak of the Matterhorn towering in the background. His
once blonde hair and beard were marble white, like the tops of the
jagged crags that surrounded them on all sides. But his chiseled
cheekbones and bright eyes made Thomas think that, in his youth, he
had probably been even more handsome than Pirmin.

Several black-necked goats milled about the rocky
yard of a small farmhouse nearby. Built entirely of stone, it
looked as solid as the man who stood across from Thomas now. Even
the shingles on its roof were fashioned from large flat stones
overlapping one another.

It had taken Thomas over a month to make it to
Wallis from Schwyz. The paths had been steep and dangerous, and he
never would have managed it with his precious cargo intact if Noll
had not procured for him a specially built alp cart that merchants
used for traversing goods over the mountain passes. It was a
narrow, two-wheeled, open wagon that was barely wide enough to hold
the solid pine box that housed Pirmin’s body.