Book of the Night

  Now I’m all alone, Lukas thought, just as Zoltan said, but it will be enough if just one of us makes it.

  He drew his sword and ran up the hill. Sometimes he had to jump over a crater, or fight off a soldier with a few blows of his sword. And as he ran on, he suffered some blows himself, and blood was dripping down his cheek, but he felt nothing. He ran on and on, struggling desperately for breath and with the sharp taste of iron in his mouth. Wallenstein’s banner high atop the old fortress seemed endlessly far away, and Lukas felt as if he weren’t getting any closer. He climbed on, staggering, falling, and struggling to his feet again, until finally, he reached the bare top of the hill with the tower.

  An officer on horseback blocked his way, his sword raised and ready to strike.

  Lukas dropped his own weapon and raised his hands.

  “I’m . . . from the Black Musketeers,” he panted with his last ounce of strength, “and bring an important message for Wallenstein.”

  The officer lifted an eyebrow. “For Wallenstein?” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he pointed behind him, where a single man sat on a large horse, his hands on his sword, his gaze directed proudly forward as if he could view the entire world from the mountaintop.

  “There is His Excellency, but—Hey! Stop!”

  Lukas had simply run forward. When he reached the general, he fell on one knee and lowered his head. “My lord, the . . . the Swedes . . . ,” he panted.

  Wallenstein looked down at him severely, and also a bit surprised. His red cape fluttered in the wind. “What is it?” he growled, with a voice as sharp as a blade. “Speak up, lad!”

  “The Swedish soldiers have broken through the western lines,” Lukas said, his voice fading. “They are on the way to the army encampment. We . . . need reinforcements, now, or all is lost.”

  Then he collapsed unconscious in front of the great general’s horse.

  XVII

  The first thing Lukas heard when he regained consciousness was a tinkling, like that of little bells. It took a while for him to realize what he heard was the sound of people laughing.

  Are they angels perhaps? he thought. Am I in heaven?

  But the smell was definitely too bad for it to be heaven. He sniffed, then opened his eyes a crack and saw white tent fabric and beneath him a hard camp bed and tucked around him a scratchy woolen blanket. He was in one of the tents in the army camp. Was the battle over? When he carefully turned his head, he realized he was not alone.

  Right next to him lay Jerome, surrounded by a half-dozen young girls who were all giggling and feeding Lukas’s French friend with slices of apple. One of them was trying to stitch up Jerome’s ripped doublet while another was working on his badly battered hat.

  “Ah, finally, you’re awake,” Jerome said when he noticed Lukas’s astonished gaze. “And I thought you’d sleep until Last Judgment.”

  “Where . . . am I?” Lukas mumbled, still confused.

  “You’re in the field hospital, sleepyhead!” Jerome laughed, and the girls joined in. “But don’t worry, they didn’t have to cut off your leg. You got a couple of big bruises and stab wounds, but nothing that won’t heal. The field surgeon said you were really lucky, considering that you just casually walked through the enemy lines with Giovanni. The doctor got him out of bed yesterday and released him. He’s going around again spouting big words.”

  Lukas looked down and realized now that his arms and chest were bandaged. A heavy bandage was wrapped around his forehead, and his head hurt when he moved.

  “What . . . are all these girls doing here?” he asked, sitting up, which gave him a terrible headache.

  “Oh, these are just a few of my new friends,” Jerome replied with a shrug. He was also wearing a bandage around his head, but seemed already in very good spirits. “They’re all delightful maids from the field hospital. May I introduce them? Barbara, Agnes, Magdalena—”

  “I think I’d feel better if we were alone for a while,” Lukas said hesitantly.

  “As you will, you spoilsport.” Jerome whispered something to the girls and they left, still giggling.

  Lukas looked around a bit. The tent they were in was huge and full of dozens of wounded soldiers, all lying on cots or on the floor. A few attendants scurried around changing dirty bandages. Some of the men groaned or whimpered softly, but most just lay there silently with ghostly white faces. The air smelled strongly of blood, garbage, and herbs burning in clay jars scattered around the tent to dispel the stench.

  “Is the battle already over?” Lukas asked.

  Jerome laughed. “You’re asking if it’s already over? Hey, you’ve been sleeping for two days and nights, and before you ask—yes, we won the battle, also thanks to you. Wallenstein sent three thousand Musketeers to the north side, and they finally repelled the Swedes. Those bastards suffered bitter losses and have withdrawn again behind the Nürnberg city walls.” He winked at Lukas. “If Wallenstein doesn’t deign to give you a medal, then at least the old grumbler Zoltan should.”

  “Then he’s still alive,” Lukas exclaimed with relief. “And I thought . . .”

  “That just a single cannonball would kill him? Sacré bleu, Zoltan is the commander of the legendary Black Musketeers, don’t forget!” Jerome chewed happily on an apple slice. “Just remember our motto. To hell and beyond. Our leader has made a pact with the devil, and he won’t die so easily.”

  Jerome’s final words startled Lukas. He couldn’t help thinking of the Spanish mercenary in the trench, who had apparently been invincible. Could the murderer of his father really have been a frozen one? What actually had happened out there on the battlefield?

  At that moment, a tent flap was pushed aside, and Paulus and Giovanni entered. Both smiled with relief on seeing Lukas well and alert.

  “Just look, our hero finally woke up,” said Paulus with a grin, “and if I understand the giggling girls out there correctly, the field surgeon didn’t cut off anything important down below.”

  Lukas blushed. At first he wanted to make some sarcastic response, but then he turned to Giovanni.

  “What about the Spaniard?” he asked intently. “Were you able to stop him? I must know.”

  Giovanni’s face immediately darkened. “You get right to the point.” He looked around carefully, then lowered his voice. “I spoke with a few soldiers who met the fellow on Wallenstein’s hill. They all observed the same thing we did. Evidently he wanted to reach the general in order to kill him, and he couldn’t be stopped either by bullets or sword blows”—a slight smile played around his lips—“but by something else.”

  “And what was that?” Lukas asked. “Just stop tormenting me!”

  “Fire.” Giovanni grinned mischievously. “He was really afraid of that. I noticed earlier on the battlefield how he steered clear of burning wagons and glowing remains of palisades. So I got a barrel of oil, lay in wait, and then poured it over him. It wasn’t quite enough to stop him completely, but the very sight of my torch sent him running.”

  “The murderer of my father is still out there,” Lukas muttered.

  “The murderer of your father?” Paulus asked, baffled. “But—”

  “This Spaniard is one of Schönborn’s henchmen,” Lukas interrupted. “I recognized him. He was there when they attacked our castle and shot my father with a crossbow. I think he did something to transform himself into one of the frozen ones.”

  “The frozen ones?” Now it was Giovanni’s turn to look at him suspiciously. “Dear Lukas, is it possible the blow to your head was stronger than we thought?”

  “I wish that were the case,” Lukas replied, and then he told his friends about his conversation with Senno, and for a while, it was silent in the tent.

  “White and black magic, talismans, and potions that make you invincible . . .” Paulus shook his head. “Hmm . . . I don’t know. That’s pretty strong stuff. It’s just like the scruffy astrologer, telling you things like that.”

  “But the Spanish so
ldier!” Lukas insisted. “You saw it yourself. He was invincible. Think about what Tabea said about the mercenaries who fought against Scherendingen near Augsburg. They, too, seemed invincible and had a strange look in their eyes. Maybe they were frozen as well.”

  “Did you consider that our friend might simply have been wearing an iron cuirass underneath his clothing?” Jerome said. “Giovanni thought the fellow looked very muscular and husky. Maybe he was wearing a thin cuirass of Solingen steel strong enough to resist the shot and repel the blows later on.”

  Giovanni nodded. “I didn’t think of that. That would explain a lot. And Tabea was practically out of her mind with fear at the time, so it’s no surprise Scherendingen’s opponents looked to her like ghosts.”

  “And how about the wolf and my amulet with the pentagram?” Lukas asked, getting more and more confused. “Ivan also saw the wolf, and the amulet has really felt hot recently. And . . . the blue cloud, when my mother—”

  He stopped short when he noticed the pitying gazes of his friends.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” he whispered finally.

  Giovanni sighed. “I’ve got to admit, it’s hard for me to believe all this magic stuff. Maybe Senno simply put crazy ideas into your head, though it’s true the Spanish mercenary really had something strange about him,” he added, still pondering the question.

  Lukas couldn’t help thinking about the man’s eyes.

  Lifeless as marbles . . .

  The mercenary had killed Kaspar with his rapier, like a demon for whom people were nothing more than pesky bugs or useless toy figures.

  “What about Kaspar?” Lukas asked, to change the subject. “Is he . . .”

  “He’s dead.” Paulus nodded. “If you ask me, that bastard didn’t deserve anything better. But there’s good news as well. After the experience in the trench, his three friends are clearly interested in coming to terms with us, and Zoltan offered to take on all seven of us—but not until we’ve recovered.”

  “Then let’s enjoy ourselves until then as best we can.” Jerome clapped his hands. “How about bringing the girls back? I feel that my bandages need to be changed.”

  The others laughed, and Lukas joined in halfheartedly, but deep inside he could still feel the dead glass eyes of the Spaniard looking at him.

  It was a few weeks before Lukas could leave the field hospital on his own, but in the meantime, his friends brought him food they’d been able to plunder after the withdrawal of the Swedes and entertained him with the newest gossip.

  Not everyone in the Black Musketeers regiment had been so lucky as he. Almost a hundred brave warriors had fallen on the northern front, the greatest toll in lives of any battalion in Wallenstein’s army. Swedish losses were disproportionately higher, however, running into many hundreds. This was not the first time Lukas wondered when all this killing would end. It became harder and harder to make any sense out of all the slashing and stabbing.

  Wallenstein had allowed the enemy forces to withdraw from Nürnberg—a decision that was opposed by many of his officers as well as the Kaiser himself.

  “He’s allowing the Swedes to kill themselves,” Giovanni explained to Lukas. “That’s his plan. Many of them are sick and suffering from hunger as they wander like beggars through the German Reich. When winter sets in, they’ll pull in their tails and crawl back to where they came from.”

  On the one hand, Lukas hoped his friend was right, but on the other hand, he was afraid that after the victory, Wallenstein’s army would be disbanded and he would be sent away. He was still not even one step closer to finding his little sister.

  After leaving the field hospital, Lukas was able to return to his work as a servant. He was busy as usual, feeding and brushing the horses, when Giovanni came to him with a serious look.

  “The commander wants to see you,” he said. “It sounds urgent, and you should get moving at once.”

  Lukas frowned. Had he done something wrong? Since the battle of Nürnberg, Zoltan had hardly spoken to him. There hadn’t even been a gesture of thanks for his warning to Wallenstein of the impending assault. Why all this hurry now?

  “I’ll be there in a moment,” Lukas replied. He set the feed bucket down and headed toward the commander’s tent. The stab wound to his left leg had healed for the most part, and he felt otherwise quite well, but he still had some difficulty walking.

  As so often, Zoltan was sitting at his desk assembled from old barrels and was signing and sealing some documents. Lukas knew that Wallenstein had high regard for the commander of the Black Musketeers and often used his experienced soldiers for dangerous errands and reconnaissance work. For Zoltan himself it meant a lot of tedious paperwork.

  “How I hate this stuff!” he growled without looking up from his work. “Damn! Soldiers are here to fight, not to write and seal documents!” Finally he put his heavy bronze seal aside and regarded Lukas sternly. “Do you know why I sent for you?”

  Lukas shrugged. “To be honest, I have no idea, sir. If it’s because of the message I delivered during the battle—”

  “Aha! You expect a reward, or at least some thanks, don’t you?” Zoltan interrupted with a grim smile. “Let me tell you that I’m extremely sparing in my expressions of thanks, especially when a soldier has only performed his damned duty. No, I called you for another reason . . .” He was silent for a moment, and then an almost mischievous look passed over his face.

  “I wanted to congratulate you, Lukas. Best wishes on your fourteenth birthday.”

  “But . . .” Lukas was so surprised that words failed him. In fact, he’d completely forgotten that he’d just turned fourteen. He tried to think back to his last birthday. His parents were still alive then, his sister was an annoying though loveable pain, and he had gone hunting with his father. Was that just a year ago? To him, it seemed like an eternity, another life.

  “Your friends told me.” Zoltan laughed. “They know you better than you think. I made them promise to let me be the first to offer my best wishes. And in addition, I wanted to give this back to you.” He reached under the table and pulled out Lukas’s Pappenheim sword. “You lost it in the battle, and I kept it for you.” The commander examined the blade. “It’s a nice piece, good workmanship. You don’t often see something like this. Where did you get it?”

  Lukas opened his mouth, embarrassed, but Zoltan waved him off.

  “The color of your face tells me I wouldn’t want to know. Well, no matter who this sword belonged to before, now it belongs to you. So take good care of it and prove yourself worthy of it.” With these words he handed the freshly polished Pappenheim sword back to Lukas.

  “As is appropriate for a boy of your age, I have a birthday present for you,” Zoltan continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “The gift is also intended as an award for your service in the battle. But don’t run around telling everyone, or every soldier will expect an award from me just for performing his duty.” He picked up a little wooden box, which had been concealed underneath all the letters and documents, and pushed it across the table. “Open it.”

  Curiously, Lukas opened the cover. He broke out in an exclamation of surprise.

  “But . . . ,” he started to say.

  “It’s a wheel lock pistol made in Augsburg,” Zoltan explained, “a marvel of technology. It has never missed its mark and has, by God, been through many battles. Take a close look, Lukas.”

  Lukas’s fingers glided over the polished cherry-wood handle, the cold steel barrel, and the well-oiled hammer with the priming pan next to it. Suddenly, he stopped. On the underside of the barrel, a name was engraved. It was a name he knew only too well.

  Friedrich von Lohenfels . . .

  Lukas’s heart raced, and all the blood drained from his face. He felt so weak that the pistol nearly slipped from his fingers. Was it even possible?

  “Yes, it’s your father’s pistol,” Zoltan continued in a soft voice. “A few weeks ago, I thought I saw your resemblance
to him, and I should have noticed it earlier. The same face, though younger, the same movements, and the same brilliant fighting technique. He taught you all these tricks, didn’t he?”

  Lukas nodded silently. The pistol in his hand suddenly seemed to weigh tons.

  “A few days ago, your friends revealed to me who you really are,” said Zoltan. “They said you didn’t want to curry favor with me as the son of a nobleman and therefore kept your name secret. I can understand that.” He sighed. “You couldn’t have known that your father and I were very close. As I’ve heard, he died recently in the service of the Kaiser . . .” Zoltan paused briefly, and Lukas thought he saw a tear in his eye. “I also knew Dietmar von Scherendingen. Together with Friedrich, we often went into battle. We were like brothers. Back then, Friedrich gave me this one of two dueling pistols. He had the other. We swore never to separate.”

  Lukas felt dazed and barely able to speak. “But why . . .”

  “Why did we finally separate, you want to know?” said Zoltan. He smiled sadly. “Well, why do men separate? Either because of a woman or alcohol. Your father met a beautiful, intelligent girl named Sophia, your mother. And Dietmar fell victim to brandy. But there were times when we were inseparable. One for all . . .”

  “And all for one,” Lukas finished, his voice hoarse.

  Zoltan looked up, pleased. “You know this motto? It stands for great friendship. It seems you have found good friends just as I did then.”

  “Even if they are always playing tricks on me,” Lukas answered with a weary nod. Just a few moments ago, he’d been annoyed with Giovanni, Jerome, and Paulus, but evidently the friends hadn’t told Zoltan everything. The commander didn’t know how his father had really died, and he also didn’t know why Lukas was really here.

  “One thing should be clear to you,” Zoltan went on now in a coarser tone as he raised his finger. “You may be the son of a nobleman and someone who was once a good friend to me, but I’ll treat you like everyone else here. There will be no extra favors, do you understand? And you never received this pistol—at least no one but your friends must learn about it.”