“What are you talking about, Matthias?” Paulus asked from behind the grave. “What nonsense is that? Who is this master, and what has he gotten?”
Lukas clenched his fists as a terrible suspicion crept over him. The hairs on his neck stood on end.
Where is Elsa? he thought. What have they done with her?
Just then, Gwendolyn appeared like a ghost from behind another gravestone farther away. Now she was directly at their enemies’ backs. With a determined expression on her face, she drew her bowstring and nodded to Lukas.
“Now!” Lukas shouted.
There was a buzzing sound, and then a cry of surprise.
Gwendolyn fired arrows off like bolts of lightning. One hit Matthias in the shoulder, and he groaned in pain, dropping his crossbow. More arrows rained down on him, the marquis, and the three frozen ones.
Amid the general confusion, the three boys leapt out from behind the headstones, rapiers drawn. Lukas glanced around once more for Giovanni, but it was like the ground had opened up and swallowed him. Lukas hesitated for only a moment—they couldn’t wait any longer.
It was time to attack.
“Together against death and the Devil!” Paulus shouted.
“To hell and beyond!” Lukas and Jerome responded.
For Zoltan, Bernhard, and Jurek! Lukas thought.
Then they launched themselves at their enemies.
XXII
Only seconds later, Lukas was standing before a frozen one who was swinging his saber like a berserker. Lukas ducked underneath the saber before going into a riposte and landing a low cut that went deep into his adversary’s side. The Spaniard swayed for a moment, only to resume his attack with even more determination. His eyes were as white and empty as glass marbles.
Having fought them before, Lukas knew how dangerous the frozen ones were. They kept right on fighting, regardless of how many times they were injured. It was actually impossible to kill them. Fire kept them at bay for a while, but a single torch or lantern likely wouldn’t be enough.
Lukas dodged the soulless Spaniard’s next blow. This time, the blade whizzed past just inches from his face. Lukas began focusing entirely on his opponent’s neck. If he could hit the frozen one’s throat, maybe blood loss would stop him, however briefly.
Lukas risked a feint and then swung a high cut at the Spaniard, sending his rapier thundering down from overhead. But at the last moment, the frozen one brought his saber into position, and their blades collided with such force that Lukas nearly dropped his weapon. Paralyzing pain shot up his arm. The frozen one grinned malevolently and wound up for another strike.
I’ll never win this fight, Lukas thought. And it seems I can’t do magic, either. It’s hopeless!
Desperately, he looked around for his friends. Paulus and Jerome were fighting the two other frozen ones; Gwendolyn was on the ground, struggling with the marquis. Her bow was lying nearby, useless—the marquis must have ambushed her hiding spot. She needed help. Where was Giovanni? Lukas still didn’t see him anywhere. Had he fallen into some kind of trap?
At any rate, Matthias posed no further danger. The traitor had collapsed beside his giant crossbow, riddled with Gwendolyn’s arrows. At this distance, it was impossible to tell whether he was still alive.
Lukas nearly didn’t see his adversary’s next attack before it was too late. He dodged it at the last possible moment, but stumbled over a burial mound and fell to the ground. His rapier skittered out of his hand.
Now the frozen one towered over him like a giant, and lunged at him with the saber. Lukas rolled to one side, and the blade bored into the wet ground. The next attack came only seconds later. Lying on his back, Lukas scooted away until he reached the rabbi’s grave. He tried to stand up, but slipped against the wet stone.
For a moment, Lukas hoped that his magic might help him. But he wasn’t sure what to do. Wave his hands and yell out some sort of spell? Something in Latin, perhaps? In his panic, all Lukas could come up with was the Latin word for “go away.”
“Vade!” he cried, over and over again. “Vade, vade!” He stretched out his right arm, the way he’d seen Elsa do. “Vade!”
But the frozen one only laughed as he raised his saber for the fatal blow. “Vas a morir,” he said in a rattling voice that sounded like it came from deep within a grave. “Pequeño bastardo . . .”
This is the end! Lukas thought. At a cemetery, how fitting.
Just then, a large shadow rose up behind the Spaniard like an angel of vengeance. A blade whistled through the air and sank deep into his back. The frozen one let out a grunt of surprise and took a step forward. Only then could Lukas see who had dealt the blow to his assailant.
It was Zoltan.
The commander was swaying, but he was standing upright. Sweat pearled on his brow as he lifted the huge broadsword he was gripping tightly with both hands. He began swinging it at the Spaniard, who retreated little by little. Zoltan’s first blow would have been fatal to any other opponent, but the frozen one had only stopped for a moment—and now he went on the attack.
Leaning against the rabbi’s grave, Lukas watched the duel between two equally matched opponents—though one was severely injured, and the other was an invincible undead creature. Saber and broadsword crashed into each other with such force that sparks flew.
Zoltan was pale as a ghost; he had lost a great deal of blood, was limping slightly, and just lifting the sword was obviously a struggle for him. Even so, he showed once more why he was the leader of the legendary Black Musketeers. Crooked cut, high cut, parry, winding cut, wrath cut . . . The commander shifted from one guard and position to the next so quickly that the Spaniard was always a fraction of a second behind. Soon, his armor was full of scratches and tears, many of which were dripping blood. Still he kept on swinging his saber as though nothing had happened.
Zoltan fought with determination, but Lukas could see that his movements were getting progressively slower and more erratic. His utterly inexhaustible force of will seemed to be fading. The wound on his stomach, where he’d been hit with a crossbow bolt, was no doubt unbelievably painful; it was a miracle that Zoltan was still able to fight at all.
The Spaniard seemed to have noticed that his opponent was at the end of his strength. He redoubled his efforts, went straight into the riposte with greater frequency. Suddenly, he left himself exposed, completely out of nowhere; Zoltan’s sword shot forward, piercing the frozen one’s cuirass . . .
. . . where it stuck fast.
“No!” Lukas cried. “Commander, watch out! It’s a trick!”
But it was already too late. As Zoltan was still tugging at the hilt of his sword, the frozen one swung his saber and felled the old warhorse like a tree. Zoltan glanced briefly up at the sky, as though a star was shining up there just for him. Then he tipped to the side and collapsed in a heap, where he remained, lifeless.
Blood seeped into the cemetery ground. Zoltan’s eyes stared blankly into the darkness.
The great commander of the Black Musketeers was dead.
“You monster!” Lukas shrieked, over and over again. He snatched up his rapier, leapt to his feet, and lunged at the soulless Spaniard. The frozen one, panting slightly, turned to face his new assailant as though preparing to chop another log into firewood.
Lukas knew he didn’t have a chance, but he still swung at his enemy like a madman. The frozen one had killed Zoltan, a man Lukas had loved almost as much as he’d loved his own father. Rage bubbled up within Lukas—he saw red. He was going to hack this monster to pieces, even if it cost him his life.
His blows were fast and precise, but Lukas still knew that he would eventually make a mistake, that his strength would fail him just as Zoltan’s had.
And that would be the end of him.
A grin flickered on the frozen one’s face, almost as though he could tell what Lukas was thinking. Soulless though his creations were, Inquisitor Waldemar von Schönborn seemed to have imbued them with his own cr
uelty.
“Vas a morir,” the Spaniard growled again as he swung.
Suddenly there was a crashing sound like broken glass, followed by a hissing sound. The frozen one’s expression changed. Lukas thought he saw pure horror glittering in the creature’s eyes. A moment later, he realized why.
The Spaniard was burning.
His entire back had burst into flames. Roaring, the frozen one tossed his saber aside and began swatting helplessly at the fire. He spun around in a circle like a dervish, which only fanned the flames. The other two frozen ones began screaming as well. Lukas raised his head and saw that they were stumbling through the cemetery, also burning—massive torches stomping around among the gravestones like will-o’-the-wisps, rolling on the ground, and then finally crawling off into the shadows of the night.
Soon the horrific scene was at an end, and all that was left of the undead terrors was a faint scent of burning flesh and cloth.
Gasping, Lukas straightened up. Had that been magic? Had he managed to cast a spell after all? He stared at his own hands in astonishment.
But then he spied Giovanni waving an oil lamp back and forth with a grave look on his face. He was wearing neither a shirt nor a doublet. The lamp had gone out, but Lukas noticed a few scraps of cloth stuffed inside it—Giovanni’s clothing.
“May I present my latest invention?” Giovanni held up the lamp, grinning. “Prague Fire. Never fails against undead and other unnatural riffraff.” He held the lamp to a burning candle standing near one of the gravestones. “I remembered how we fought these beasts off during our last adventure,” Giovanni explained. “With fire.” He pointed behind himself. “As the rest of you were having your little chat, I collected these oil-filled lamps, and then sealed them with strips of cloth from my shirt and doublet. The stuff burns just like tinder.” He shivered and rubbed his bare arms.
“I hate to say it, but your little carnival show probably saved our lives. That, and Gwendolyn’s arrows.” Paulus walked over to Matthias, who was slumped lifelessly against a headstone, with his large repeater crossbow on the ground beside him. Paulus gave him a contemptuous kick. “This one here’s probably already burning in hell.”
Matthias’s body tipped to one side, and Lukas stared into the traitor’s dead eyes. Three arrows protruded from his chest—Gwendolyn had done a thorough job.
Where was Gwendolyn? She’d been fighting the marquis earlier.
Lukas swallowed hard as he regarded the dead man one last time. He’d always liked Matthias. It hurt to realize that all his friendliness had only been for show.
Now he’d gotten what he deserved.
“Forget the bastard,” Jerome said quietly. “Come on over here and pay your last respects to our commander. He deserves a proper good-bye.”
They followed Jerome, who knelt down beside Zoltan, eyes downcast. Lukas had a hard time fighting back his tears. Zoltan had known Lukas’s father—the two of them had been good friends. With the commander’s death, it felt like his father was even further away than before. Lukas’s memories of him were gradually fading, like lettering on old paper.
Maybe I could have helped Zoltan, Lukas thought. Maybe my magic would have worked on him.
Lukas would have liked to try. But now it was too late.
Paulus removed his hat and wiped his eyes. Lukas had never seen his large, surly friend cry before. He cleared his throat. “A man like Zoltan had to die in battle,” Paulus said, his voice cracking. He balled his hands into fists. “But not like this, killed by a cowardly traitor with a crossbow. By God, I swear I’ll avenge him! Matthias is lucky that he’s already in hell. Otherwise, I’d carry him there myself.”
“Zoltan was the best mentor anyone could have,” Giovanni said quietly. “I’ve never seen a more experienced fighter.”
“Though he could certainly light a fire under a person’s behind sometimes.” Jerome nodded thoughtfully. “Do you remember how he—”
“All right, you mourning doves, is anyone here still interested in the living?”
Lukas jumped when he heard Gwendolyn’s voice and saw her pop up from behind a grave like a cheerful ghost. They’d actually forgotten about the girl for a moment. Lukas knew he’d need to put his grief aside. Gwendolyn was right, they had to dry their tears and keep going. They had to worry about the survivors right now.
Especially about Elsa, who was still nowhere to be found.
XXIII
Gwendolyn approached the four friends with a serious expression, wiping her hunting knife on her leather trousers as she walked. Lukas was relieved to see her apparently unharmed.
“That painted hobgoblin probably thought fighting a girl would be easy,” she said, nodding toward the marquis, who was lying on the ground near the cemetery wall. A pair of crows perched on a nearby headstone, eyeing LaSalle as though getting ready to land on him.
“Tried to skewer me like a rabbit with his rapier,” Gwendolyn went on with a wry smirk. “But besides archery, my father also taught me a couple of dirty tricks to use on overly pushy men.”
“Is he dead?” Jerome asked.
“Not quite, but soon.” Gwendolyn turned around, dagger raised, but Lukas grabbed her arm to stop her.
“Don’t!” he exclaimed. “We have nothing more to fear from him, and he might be able to tell us where Elsa is. We’re running out of time!”
The Marquis de LaSalle let out a hoarse, gurgling sound. It took Lukas a while to realize that he was laughing.
“You fools!” he wheezed. “You ran out of time long ago! You think you’ve won, but you’re all just marionettes in his game.”
“What are you talking about?” Lukas went over to the injured man, who struggled into a sitting position, propped against the wall. “What game?” He saw that the marquis’s leg was bleeding severely. The wound didn’t strike him as life threatening, though he probably would never run again. “Stop talking nonsense, just tell us where Elsa is!” Lukas insisted.
The Marquis de LaSalle’s lips twisted into a spiteful grin. Together with his powdered wig and makeup, it made him look like an evil old woman. “Your sister is gone! The golem took her. It’s bringing the little brat to him right now. Everything is going according to plan, and there’s nothing you can do about it now.”
“My God, the golem,” Lukas breathed. “So it was here at the cemetery.” He bent down and shook the marquis wildly. “Where did the golem take Elsa? Tell us! Where is Elsa?”
“Calm down, little one,” LaSalle taunted him, giggling. He glanced up at the sky for a moment, where stars were steadily coming into view. “It’s too late anyway, so I might as well tell you. I’m sure the golem has already delivered your sweet little sister to Polonius by now.”
“That hunchbacked alchemist?” Paulus asked as he strode up to join the others. “I should have drowned him in his own latrine when I had the chance.”
“Polonius is probably a henchman of Schönborn’s, just as the marquis is,” Giovanni mused aloud. “The alchemist commanded the golem to kidnap Elsa, and now he’s long gone with her.” He furrowed his brow. “Somehow I have the feeling that everything was about Elsa this whole time. But I can’t make sense of how this fits with the Imperial Regalia yet.”
“The imperial sword!” Jerome cried, hitting his forehead. “Maybe that sword will help us figure out where Elsa is.” He glanced around. “Where is it, then?”
“If what Giovanni says is true, and Polonius hasn’t taken the sword with him, then it must be hidden in this grave.” Lukas walked over to the tomb of Rabbi Löw, not far from the cemetery wall. “Remember what Zoltan said: the sword is in the lion’s den. Hm, but where is that? We’re running out of time!”
Lukas regarded the grave thoughtfully. The two angled stone slabs made it look almost like a tiny church, just the size of a man. Tentatively, he ran his hand over one massive slab and then the other. Vertical stone tablets were positioned at either end, adorned with columns and archways. Above that, there was a car
ving of a lion with paws raised. Strange lettering covered the entire tomb. A stone pinecone was at the very top.
“Let me.” Paulus stepped up to the grave and took hold of one of the slabs. “I’ll just lift this up for a moment so we can look—”
But Lukas held him back. “I’m not so sure. These slabs look like they haven’t been touched in a long time. Look at the moss and lichen in the cracks.”
“Maybe Mister Powdered Wig knows where the sword is,” Gwendolyn piped up. She turned and strode toward the marquis, making a threatening gesture with the hunting knife. “Come on, spit it out, flea-wig. Tell us before I carve a pattern into your other leg.”
“You’ll have to do some of the thinking for yourselves,” LaSalle retorted. “You’re clever little children, aren’t you?” He giggled, looking as though he’d just had a wonderful idea. “It’s certainly a hard nut to crack! I wonder which of you will manage it?”
“I bet your skull isn’t a hard nut to crack,” Paulus said, raising his fist.
“Stop,” Giovanni broke in. “We can figure this out without him.” He rounded the grave, tracing the carved columns, gates, and lettering. The others watched in silence.
“Giovanni’s managed to figure everything out thus far,” Jerome remarked in a soft voice. “But I still think we should tickle the answer out of this saligaud, this bastard. Even if he is a countryman of mine.”
“Maybe Lukas can conjure the sword out,” Gwendolyn put in. “It has to be somewhere nearby.”
“Lukas can do magic?” Paulus looked confused. “Lukas, is that true? You didn’t tell us that you—”
“Gwendolyn, what are you talking about?” Lukas snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you? I can’t do magic!”
“Oh, that’s right, I nearly forgot,” Gwendolyn shot back, sulking. “All you can do is wave your arms around and yell ‘abracadabra.’ Because you don’t have faith in yourself! You’re a coward, and it’s driving me mad, you know that?”