Book of the Night by Oliver Pötzsch
Horrified, Lukas put his hand to his mouth. He hadn’t meant to do that! Everything had happened so fast that he wasn’t really sure what had happened. The leader of the Blood Wolves was evil. He would have killed the little girl without batting an eyelash. But now Lukas himself was a murderer!
This was no time to mull things over. The flames had already spread to some of the other trunks, and soon the entire shed would be ablaze. Outside, more and more excited voices could be heard.
Lukas got to his feet and was about to run outside when he heard a furious shout out in the courtyard. Nearby stood little Hans, staring through the doorway into the shed, now fully illuminated by the blaze. He was trembling and pointing at Lukas.
“You . . . killed him!” he screamed. “Murderer!”
Only now did Lukas notice he was holding the bloody knife in his hand, and Marek lay dead at his feet.
“That’s not true,” Lukas protested. “It was an accident. He—”
But Hans had already turned and fled. With a curse, Lukas threw the knife aside and was about to run after him.
“Hans, listen to me—” But Lukas tripped on one of the wolf pelts and fell. As he scrambled back to his feet his gaze fell again on the open trapdoor. The sword handle was glittering in the flickering light of the flames, and Lukas felt a strange longing. It was almost the same weapon his father had used, the so-called Pappenheim sword with a broad blade and a basket hilt made of intricately wound wires, named after General von Pappenheim. How often Lukas had dreamed of someday being able to wear a sword like that, and now the weapon was here, lying directly in front of him.
Without further hesitation, he reached back down into the recess, pulled out the leather-bound sword along with its belt, and ran off.
Outside in the courtyard, people were running around shouting, and from the corner of his eye, he could see a few of his comrades crawling back under the wall and fleeing. But Mathis just stood there crying, until he was seized by a big, broad-shouldered lad, evidently the miller’s apprentice, who slapped the boy over and over. Farther away, the miller’s wife was chasing after some chickens that had run away.
In a panic, Lukas looked around. Which way should he go? Certainly not down to the frozen mill brook, where Hans had surely told the others about Lukas’s treason and Marek’s murder. But the wall was much too high, and icy. He’d never be able to get over it fast enough.
Then Lukas noticed the little girl standing some distance away alongside a wide entryway, her tiny body still dressed only in a nightgown. Nervously, she raised her hand and waved for him to come over. Lukas hesitated, then ran toward her. Silently, she pointed to the sturdy bolt and lock that blocked the way through the gate. She was holding a large key that had been hidden somewhere nearby.
“Thanks,” Lukas gasped, reaching for the key.
He opened the lock and pulled on the bolt, which squeaked as it slid to one side. The gate opened a crack, just wide enough for him to wriggle through. One last time he looked back at the girl, who was smiling at him now. She wasn’t Elsa, but the resemblance had awakened something within him that he had been suppressing more and more in recent days. He had to find his sister.
“Thank you,” Lukas said again, softly.
He disappeared through the gate and hurried out into the bitter-cold darkness with the sword in hand.
VII
Panting and freezing, Lukas wandered for many miles through the darkness of the Oden Forest. The moon lit his way as he stomped down a barely recognizable road covered with drifts of new-fallen snow.
He had left everything behind: his comrades who considered him a murderer and a traitor, his tattered coat that had slipped off his shoulders during his fight with Marek, and even his large hat that had served him so well up to then. He had never felt so lonely, not even in the long, sleepless nights just after the death of his mother.
The only thing he still had was the stolen sword—he had even left the purse full of coins behind in the miller’s shed. But neither one would save him from freezing to death. For God knows, that was the fate awaiting him now. Dressed only in a shirt and trousers, he was mercilessly exposed to the cold. In place of his worn-out shoes, he had only rags he’d tied around his feet as he’d seen the other kids do. He could barely feel his toes, the wind pierced the thin linen cloth of his shirt, and his only chance was to find a village. But there was not a glimmer of light visible anywhere.
At some point, Lukas gave up. His steps became slower, he staggered left and right, and finally he fell over a tall snowdrift and just remained lying there on the side of the road. It was still icy cold, but now he could barely feel the cold anymore. He was just infinitely tired. He knew that if he allowed himself to close his eyes, he would fall asleep and freeze to death, but would that be so bad? At least he’d see his father and mother again—and perhaps even little Elsa. Together they would be waiting for him at the gates to heaven. With his frozen fingers, Lukas clenched the handle of the sword with its perfectly wrought blade. Just close my eyes . . .
You mustn’t go to sleep, Lukas. Remain strong. Elsa needs you. You must find her—don’t fall asleep.
Lukas woke up with a start. That was the voice of his mother!
Or was it just voices from the other world where he would soon be going? Already he heard the sound of music, a fiddle, a barrel organ, and a man’s raucous voice. It sounded very, very earthly and not heavenly at all.
“What in all the world . . . ,” Lukas mumbled.
With his last ounce of strength, he lifted his sword and looked around in the darkness. Now, nearby in the forest, he could see a tiny light he hadn’t noticed before. That’s where the music was coming from.
He fought his way through the snow toward the gleam of light. Soon he could see it came from a campfire with a number of men and some women standing around it, laughing, dancing, and passing a jug between them. Off to one side were two wagons and a few decrepit horses tied to a tree. Not knowing what to do, Lukas tottered from side to side. If this was no dream, then certainly this group was a band of robbers, and he could imagine what such a gang would do to a lost, half-frozen boy. Certainly they wouldn’t give him a hot meal. But then he decided that he didn’t really have any other choice.
Better to be slaughtered near a warm fire than freeze to death out here in the lonely darkness, he thought.
Just as he was about to approach the camp with his hands raised, he heard a menacing growl behind him. He turned around and nearly froze with fear.
Standing up on its two hind legs was a huge bear, growling and staring at Lukas with its little black eyes.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Lukas drew the sword from its sheath and stooped down with his weapon in position, just as his father had taught him. The steps he had practiced for so many years helped him conquer his exhaustion. The bear weaved back and forth a bit, then fell down onto its front paws and approached its prey, sniffing and grumbling. Lukas was retreating step by step when suddenly he heard a voice nearby.
“Hey, who do we have here? Stop right there, boy!”
Lukas stepped to one side, allowing him to keep an eye on both the bear and the possible new threat. A short, slender man approached from the camping area. When he saw Lukas’s sword, he drew his own weapon, a narrow rapier that seemed to glimmer in the moonlight. The man had a feather in his hat, which was pulled down so far that Lukas couldn’t see his face.
“Sacré bleu!” With a furious shout, the man charged.
Lukas quickly dodged to one side, but his opponent was quick, too. He stopped, made a quarter turn, and went into attack position again.
“Deuxième,” the man murmured. His blade, much lighter than that of the sword, circled to the right. “Troisième. Et fin.”
The blade shot forward, and only at the last moment was Lukas able to fend off the thrust of the sharp rapier with his broader sword.
Lukas had fought many small skirmishes in recent months, but only with h
Feint, attack, parry, riposte, striking around, chasing . . . Lukas jumped back and forth, ignoring the biting cold in all the excitement. But no matter what he tried, his opponent had a suitable response to each of his thrusts. Even if the man’s sword dance was a bit affected, he was a true master of the rapier. In addition, the bear was lurking in the forest somewhere behind Lukas. One false step, and the beast would no doubt rip him to pieces.
As his situation got more and more precarious, Lukas tried a bold attack. He feinted to the right, realizing that for a brief moment his left flank would be open to attack, then followed that with a lightning-fast upward thrust, knocking the man’s hat off his head. Then Lukas shot forward and pressed his sword against the man’s throat.
“Surrender, or . . . ,” Lukas gasped, but suddenly he stopped and stared into the unprotected face of his opponent.
It was the face of a boy.
His opponent was no more than one or two years older than himself, with ash-blond hair and an almost angelic beauty. His nose, chin, narrow lips, high shoulders—everything about him—seemed as perfectly formed and noble as that of a prince. If it weren’t for the friendly gleam in his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks, he might have appeared quite haughty.
Just as astonished as Lukas, the boy lowered his blade. “Mon dieu!” he murmured. “I thought I was fighting a grown master swordsman. Who in the world . . .”
“Hey, Jerome!” came a deep voice from the campfire area. “Why are you taking so much time out there? Did you wet your fancy pants?”
Two other individuals now appeared. One was a tall, dark-haired fellow with a saber at his side. With his broad back, he reminded Lukas of an unhewn block of wood. In a few years he would probably be a giant. At his side walked a much shorter and younger boy, who gazed intently at Lukas and his opponent. He looked a bit like a watchful cat, always ready to pounce. Like Lukas, he was carrying a sword; his was dangling at his side in a plain sheath.
“If my eyes aren’t deceiving me, our good Jerome has just been beaten by a puny street urchin,” the younger boy said with a smile. In spite of the darkness, his eyes peering from beneath his shoulder-length brown hair seemed to take in the whole scene. “It will cost you five kreuzers if you don’t want us to tell our master about this disgrace. Well, what do you think of the offer, Jerome?”
His big friend let out a loud laugh. “Perhaps our Frenchie could find a new job as a tightrope dancer. What do you think, hmm, Jerome? Then you wouldn’t need to fight anymore. You could still use your rapier to open wine bottles.”
“What dolts you are!” snarled Jerome. “Mon dieu! I swear this little fellow fought like the devil incarnate. I didn’t know—”
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation around the fire before our hungry Balthasar has you for supper,” the younger boy interrupted. “He’s standing right behind you, and his chain is long enough—if I remember correctly, at least fifteen feet.”
“Sacré bleu!” Jerome jumped to one side, and Lukas, too, quickly stepped back a pace. For a few minutes, Lukas had completely forgotten the bear, and not until now did he notice that the creature was tied to a chain. From close up, the bear no longer appeared as dangerous, but rather old and mangy.
“I think it’s about time you told us who you are and why you’re sneaking into our camp armed with a sword,” the younger boy said to Lukas in a voice that, despite his childlike stature, sounded clear and precise, like that of a learned man. “And please remove your sword before Paulus rams you into the ground.” He pointed at the rough-looking character by his side. “Or do you want to have a fight with all three of us?”
“If I have to, I’ll cross swords with every one of you,” Lukas replied defiantly, glaring at the three like an animal at bay. He tried to keep his composure, though his fighting spirit had flagged, and once again he felt the cold and the exhaustion. He hoped the other three didn’t notice how he was trembling. Cautiously, he lowered his weapon.
“Aha, a real hero!” The boy laughed. “I hope you’re capable of giving satisfaction.”
“Satis . . . what?” Lukas asked.
The big fellow at his side just snorted. “Don’t pay any attention to him. Giovanni is always talking big like that. Thinks he’s smarter than anyone.”
“I am the smartest of us three,” Giovanni answered dryly, “which, however, because of the present competition, is no great feat. By the same token, I couldn’t contest your title, Paulus, as the strongest, or Jerome’s as the handsomest in our group. Capisce?”
Paulus groaned. “You’re driving me crazy with your endless babble. Just let the fellow tell us what he was doing here in the forest.”
Giovanni nodded. “For once, you dunce, you’re right.” He looked at Lukas hopefully and reached out his hand. “Now just give me the sword, great warrior, and then, if you like, you can come over to our camp and tell your story there. Judging by the way you look, you need a warm blanket and a drink of hot mulled wine.” His eyes rested on Lukas’s tattered, mud-spattered trousers. “By God, old Balthasar would probably have just spat you out again in disgust.”
Over in the camp, music and laughter could still be heard. As they approached, the first person Lukas noticed was a muscular giant in a bearskin coat sitting in the midst of three athletic-looking young men and towering above all the rest. Two women dressed in all sorts of colorful clothing were arguing over a jug of wine while two other men in ragged coats were playing listlessly on a barrel organ and a fiddle. Farther away, another man in shabby leather armor was huddled down and appeared to be sleeping. His head had fallen forward, but in his right hand, he still clung to a wide two-handed sword.
The moment the four boys entered the ring of light around the fire, the music fell silent. Lukas could feel almost a dozen pairs of eyes staring at him.
“Damn, who did you bring us now?” the bearded giant growled as he picked a piece of meat out of his teeth. “Is he perhaps food for Balthasar? There’s nothing on him but skin and bones.”
“Actually, your bear almost did eat him, Ivan,” Giovanni replied with a grin. “But only after he beat Jerome in a swordfight.”
“A mon honneur, he fought like a Frenchman,” Jerome argued. “He can’t be just some simple farm boy, or he never would have beaten—”
“Above all, he’s hungry and freezing,” one of the women cut in. She was a little older, and a few strands of fiery red hair protruded from under her headscarf. She gestured for Lukas to take a seat alongside her by the fire. “Come now, little one, we won’t bite. Sit down with us and get warmed up.”
“I’m not little, I’m—” Lukas started to protest in a soft voice, but the man with the fiddle interrupted him, as if he hadn’t heard a word of what they were saying.
“Hey, who’s to tell us he’s not some sneaky little robber sent here to spy on our camp? There are probably more like him lurking around out there.”
“Oh, come on, Bjarne!” The red-haired woman waved dismissively. “Had there been any around, your music would have driven them away long ago.”
“I . . . thought you were robbers and cutthroats,” Lukas replied uncertainly.
The men and women laughed as Lukas, feeling more or less relieved, sat down beside them at the fire. The younger of the two women, a pretty girl with large, tinkling earrings, handed him a cup of hot mulled wine while stroking his arm gently, which caused Lukas to flinch instinctively. “Oh, we’re just a group of traveling artists,” the girl said with a smile. “My name, by the way, is Tabea, and I’m the dancer in the group.” She pointed at the three husky young men, and Lukas noticed for the first time that they all looked very much alike. “The Jannsen Brothers can walk on thi
“Fencing shows?” Lukas asked, puzzled.
“Our group’s main attraction,” said Paulus, winking at him while bowing slightly and pointing his thumb at Jerome and Giovanni. “The three of us put on fencing performances. You know, deadly duels, one versus two, sudden lunges, much shouting . . . things like that.”
Lukas nodded and sipped on his hot diluted wine, which revived his spirits somewhat. Indeed he knew about these so-called “fencing shows.” A few years ago at a town fair in Heidelberg, he’d seen such a group dueling with all sorts of weapons in the town square. He had found it exciting, but his father spoke scornfully of it as disorderly behavior and bar-house brawling. In fact, beer and wine had flowed freely, and after the performance, several fights broke out. But it had been a grandiose spectacle.
“You still haven’t told us what you were doing here in the forest and who you really are,” one of the tightrope walkers insisted. “So . . . ?”
After some hesitation, Lukas started to tell his story, while avoiding any mention of his actual family. As he had told the Blood Wolves earlier, he only said he’d lost his parents in the war and had for a while struggled through life as a drummer boy.
“After our troops were slaughtered, I fled into the forest,” he concluded, “and then hunger and the cold led me to you.”
“And the Pappenheim sword?” the strong man asked curiously.
“Oh, that? I took it from a dying foot soldier.”
Giovanni looked him up and down suspiciously. “That was no doubt the same soldier who taught you how to fight like that with a sword. He must have been a real master in his field.”