ALTDORF (The Forest Knights: Book 1) (35 page)

There were less than forty Habsburg soldiers at the fortress that night. Eleven survived to be thrown into the very cells they used to guard. Vogt Berenger von Landenberg was amongst their number. He had been found in his room in the keep, hiding in a wardrobe.

Noll had him dragged into the courtyard, and at first the man cursed and screamed, demanding to be set free or he would bring the wrath of the Holy Roman Empire down upon them all. But he sang a different tune when Noll held a hot iron up to his face.

Noll wanted nothing more than to take the Vogt’s eyes, as he had taken those of Noll’s father. But Landenberg was the only true bargaining piece he held. He needed him to trade for Seraina, and perhaps the ferryman, if he yet lived. And a fat Vogt with no eyes would make a poor offer, indeed.

Impromptu fires had sprung up all over the courtyard. His army had found the keep’s stores and people all around Noll were singing and feasting. Children and wives had raced up from the town to welcome their previously imprisoned loved ones back into the world.

Yes, Noll was now in control of the Altdorf fortress, something far more valuable to the Duke than Landenberg. And if Noll knew relinquishing it to the Austrians would ensure Seraina’s release, he would have given it up in a heartbeat. But it was not Noll’s to trade. It belonged to the people.

In the end, he threw the poker aside and settled for whipping Landenberg’s back until it frothed with blood, and the man’s screams faded into unconsciousness.

The mess on his back was nothing a good tunic would not cover.

Chapter 40

A
FTER RIDING all night, a road-weary soldier from Altdorf limped into the Habsburg throne room early the next morning. A purple-haired Fool trailed along behind him, mimicking his inebriated-like gait, with an added flourish or two.

The bells on the Fool’s shoes seemed especially loud to Leopold on this day.

The Duke, with the hulking and grizzled form of his man Klaus standing once again at his side, listened to the soldier’s report. Leopold sank further into his chair with the telling of every detail. The Fool pulled up a chair beside the Duke and began copying Leopold’s posture.

The soldier was in the midst of describing how Vogt Landenberg had been captured by the villagers, and was perhaps even dead, when Leopold sprang from his chair and wrapped his hands around the Fool’s throat. They fell to the floor kicking and thrashing, and by the time Klaus managed to break his lord’s grip on the jester, the little man was blue in the face and a crowd of servants had gathered at the door.

The soldier stood straight, his wide eyes fixated on the coughing Fool still lying on the floor. Leopold straightened his clothes and ran his hands through his hair once before turning to Klaus. He looked refreshed, like he had just stepped out of a bath.

“Make arrangements to leave at once,” he said.

“To what destination, my lord?”

“Salzburg. And send runners before us. I want an entire War Council convened before we arrive.”

Klaus bowed and turned on his heel. He waved his arms at the gawking servants and they fled before him as he left the room.

The Fool jumped up from the floor and began to follow them.

“And where do you think you are going?” Leopold said.

The painted man turned and faced Leopold with one hand on his hip. “Why to pack of course, my lord. For what War Council would be complete without a fool?”

He flashed Leopold his best entertainer’s smile and scurried from the room. The bells on his shoes made not a sound.

Chapter 41

T
HE SUN WAS out but it did little to cut through the searing cold frosting the beard and mustache of the old trapper as he made his way towards the one-room cabin in the distance. His rhythmic breathing drowned out his muffled footsteps as his snowshoes floated in and out of the fresh powder. As he came down out of the trees and started across a hillside clearing that would be a field in the spring, the trapper paused and leaned on his walking stick.

A thunderous crack boomed through the woods behind him and echoed throughout the forest. The sap in a tree had frozen, and expanded freeze after freeze, until finally, the trunk gave in and exploded.

Without looking back in the direction of the sound, the old man pushed off on his walking stick and headed to the cabin.

The door was stuck, frozen in place. He chipped away at it with his walking stick until it yielded to his shoulder. Air considerably warmer than the outside temperature rushed past him, carrying with it a stagnant odor. Against the far wall, a spruce-bough bed held two still forms, covered up to their necks with a single threadbare blanket. A man and a woman; her head on his chest and him on his back with his white, beardless face turned toward the rafters.

The trapper crossed himself and then covered his nose with the same hand. Idly, he wondered why it was so much warmer in the room than it should be, until a flicker of light caught his eye. On the small table in the center of the hut, burned a single tallow candle. And just past the candle, peering out over the rough table, a pair of dark eyes stared back at him.

A boy, who looked to be around four, stood at the edge of the table and did not move. The pupils of his already dark eyes were dilated so wide they appeared midnight-black.

The trapper attempted to speak, but his voice came out in a croak. He had not used it for speech since the summer. And then only once, while he traded for supplies. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Nothing to fear, boy. Tell me your name.”

The dark eyes narrowed and bored into the trapper’s own for so long the trapper thought the boy could not understand him. He was about to try again, but in French this time, when the boy’s chest heaved and he finally spoke in a voice as dry as the trapper’s own.

“Thomas.”

“How long you been here like this?”

The boy turned to look at the figures on the bed. He pointed at them.

“They look cold so I covered them. Might be they are still sick.”

The trapper’s eyes followed the frail little arm to look at the gaunt figures embracing on the handcrafted bed. The fever got them long before the cold ever did.

The old man crossed himself again and averted his gaze.

“The cold cannot reach them anymore, Thomas.”

Thomas came awake with a jerk that sent a spasm of pain racing down the length of his arm and under his ribs. The old trapper’s face hovering above him faded and was replaced with Seraina’s. Her auburn hair fell across one of her green eyes and he could make out the light freckles on her sun-browned skin.

She smiled and held a cool hand to his forehead. She smelled of violets and spoke words he did not understand, but were comforting. His body became heavy, and staring up at her, he fought hard to keep his eyes open, wanting nothing more than to remain lucid in the moment. But within seconds, her skin and hair blurred together and those brilliant eyes faded like stars on a cloudy night.

The scent of violets, however, remained with him long after the darkness returned.

###

The story continues in
“MORGARTEN”
Purchase it here
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The William Tell story that most of us are familiar with, has William Tell being forced to shoot an apple off his son’s head by an oppressive Austrian Governor named Hermann Gessler. We have the playwright Friedrich Schiller to thank for this. He wrote his hugely successful play
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