Book of the Night

  Lukas nodded and ran his fingers again along the barrel of the beautifully made present.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Zoltan added. “I have heard you met with Senno. Stay away from this quack. I don’t trust him at all. Wallenstein’s orders are becoming increasingly strange, and I fear we have Senno’s influence to thank for that. I consider it a serious error to have let the Swedes simply move on, and I think we shall soon hear from them again. What a disgrace there are no more men like your father.” Gruffly, he waved Lukas off. “And now, move along before I start getting sentimental. We should forget about old times. It gets us nowhere.”

  The next day, the army moved on.

  Wallenstein had decided to teach his next lesson to the Saxons, who were allied with the Swedes. For the imperial army, that meant another brutal forced march as summer slowly but surely gave way to fall. Nights were cooler now, and the rainstorms more violent. Lukas’s shirt and doublet clung to his body, he shivered and froze, and the smoky campfires in the evening did little to dry out his clothing.

  Wherever they went, they came upon scorched wasteland. The few farmers they met who had not fled into the forests and swamps were at the point of starvation. The soldiers made soup out of acorns, animal hides, and grass, or ate rats and mice that didn’t scurry back into their holes fast enough. At night, sitting around their campfires, they told horror stories of creatures who visited cemeteries to feed on the dead or who stole hanged men from the gallows to still their nagging hunger.

  Their own army also suffered hunger, and more and more soldiers were starting to grumble about their great general.

  “Zoltan is right—we should have slaughtered the Swedes at Nürnberg,” Paulus grumbled, too, more than once. “The Saxons would have become docile as little lambs, and we wouldn’t have to tramp through rain and mud forever. I miss the free life of a performer.”

  “You can forget about that,” replied Giovanni, pulling his hat down over his face to protect it from the stinging rain. “First of all, we promised Lukas to help him search for Elsa, and besides, everyone is tired of all the fighting. Who wants to watch a sword-fighting performance when some drunken soldiers have just killed his family?”

  When he thought no one was watching, Lukas took the wheel lock pistol and practiced shooting with his friends in the nearby woods. Soon he learned how best to keep the powder dry, to pack the bullet in the barrel in practically no time, cock the hammer, and then to aim as calmly as possible.

  “You shoot really well,” Giovanni commented one day when Lukas once again hit a clay jar standing on an overturned tree. “The eye of a hawk and the calm breath of an old stag. The practice really paid off.”

  “That doesn’t do anything to bring my parents back,” Lukas said bitterly and loaded again.

  Instinctively, he reached for the amulet that still hung around his neck. Even if everything Senno had told him was just nonsense, he somehow felt protected by the talisman. The pentagram had not felt warm for a long time.

  That night Lukas had another horrible nightmare. It was somewhat like the dream that had tormented him shortly before Red Sara gave him the amulet. He was surrounded by dense clouds, and behind them, something unspeakably evil was lurking. He knew it, even if he couldn’t see it—the huge, black wolf prowling around, its red eyes flashing in the darkness, trying to force its way to him through the impenetrable gloom. The fog lifted, the wolf’s eyes flared up like candles . . . and then it jumped.

  Directly at Lukas.

  Lukas shouted, and someone started shaking him. It was Jerome, looking at him with obvious concern.

  “Thanks for waking me up,” Lukas gasped. “It was only a dream that—”

  “Listen to me. I have to tell you something,” Jerome interrupted.

  Lukas blinked and saw that the sun had already risen. Cold, damp air came through the entrance to the tent.

  “What is it?” Lukas asked, rubbing his tired eyes. “Are the Swedes attacking again?”

  “No,” Jerome replied softly, “but Karl and fat Gottfried just stopped by. They had to deliver a message to headquarters, and do you know who they saw there?”

  Lukas was suddenly wide-awake. He knew Jerome’s answer before he gave it.

  “Waldemar von Schönborn has arrived at our camp,” Jerome whispered. “It’s said he wants to look around here for heretics. We can finally pay him a visit.”

  Lukas nodded grimly. When he got up, the amulet beneath his shirt briefly touched his naked skin, and he cried out.

  The talisman was glowing hot.

  XVIII

  Shortly afterward, the four friends met in an old, half-empty covered wagon off to one side that stank of brandy and gunpowder. They’d often used it recently as a hiding place. It was dark and stuffy, and behind the leaking barrels, they could hear rats squeaking, but at least the friends could speak undisturbed here.

  “What exactly did the other servant boys have to say about Schönborn’s arrival?” Giovanni asked Jerome excitedly.

  “Well, they were delivering a message to headquarters, and just at that moment a large contingent of men on horseback arrived with a high clerical figure in their midst wearing a purple robe. His bodyguards announced him in bombastic words, by name and title, and you couldn’t miss it.” Jerome grinned. “I told Karl and the other boys that I’d give them my daily meat ration if they could tell me anything about Schönborn. The stuff is always so infested with maggots anyway that I can’t stomach it.”

  “These bodyguards,” Lukas asked, “were they perhaps Spaniards?”

  “Bien sûr.” Jerome nodded. “But Karl and Gottfried couldn’t say if our strange invincible friend was among them. They were standing too far away to see that.”

  “You said Schönborn intends to look for heretics here?” Paulus asked as he restlessly struggled to sit on a barrel much too small for him.

  “One of the guards mentioned that,” Jerome replied. “Schönborn no doubt intends to find and kill all the heretics in the camp. Prostitutes and Gypsies especially are a thorn in his side. It seems his henchmen have also brought along a cartload of torturing implements.”

  Giovanni shuddered. “That’s horrible! Someone like that is a father confessor to Wallenstein? Then I’d prefer this quack astrologer Senno.”

  “In any case, the bastard is here, and we can finally get moving,” Paulus growled. “First we need to have a look around the camp.” He got up and the covered wagon tipped precariously to one side. “Let’s hurry over to headquarters before Zoltan notices our absence and gives us extra sentry duties.”

  The army had set up camp near a small, burned-out town with a mountain range behind it, its highest summits already covered in snow. It was unpleasantly cold for the middle of October, and the soldiers had wrapped themselves in tattered blankets and coats taken from corpses. On their way to headquarters, Lukas saw weary, anxious faces. Many of the men suffered from whooping cough and diarrhea, and Lukas wondered if the sick men would hold out until they arrived at their longed-for winter encampments.

  Fortunately, the quarters for the Black Musketeers were not far from Wallenstein’s barracks, a short walk for the friends. As usual, the strange building on wheels was surrounded by a circle of white tents where some watchmen were on duty. Carefully, the boys moved forward and ducked behind a withered blackberry bush near one of the tents.

  “The last time I made it through with a guard,” Lukas whispered. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to have that much luck today, but at least from here, we have a view of the Spanish mercenaries. The other servant boys weren’t lying.”

  There were about a half-dozen Spanish soldiers, all dressed in their typical baggy breeches with a cuirass, sword, and round helmets. The mysterious mercenary with the bulbous scar was not there, however. Waldemar von Schönborn was not there, either; presumably, he was inside one of the tents, perhaps even with Wallenstein personally.

  “Look over there,” Jerome whispered. “
That’s the cart the others told us about.”

  Behind one of the tents, half concealed, stood a large cart from which two soldiers were unloading a heavy box while others were sorting through bundles of twigs, chains, and thick ropes lying on the ground in front of them.

  “Schönborn must be serious about his search for heretics,” Giovanni mumbled. “You can only hope that Wallenstein stops him, because if this fellow is looking for a heretic, he’ll find one. That’s as sure as—”

  He stopped on hearing a sound behind them. Shocked, they turned around, but to their relief, they saw a boy about ten years old standing there. He had short, dark hair and a dirty face and was picking his nose as he looked curiously at the older boys.

  “Damn, kid, you really gave me a shock,” said Giovanni. “So move along, take off. There’s nothing to see here, and we have no candy for you.”

  “What are you doing here?” the boy wanted to know.

  “We . . . ah . . . have a message to deliver to headquarters,” Paulus replied. “It’s important, so don’t bother us.”

  “Then why are you hiding behind a bush?” the boy responded.

  Lukas sighed. It was obvious the little fellow couldn’t be put off that easily.

  “Listen,” he said, pulling a tarnished copper button from his pocket with a handsome embossed figure on it. Jerome had found it on the battlefield and given it to Lukas in the field hospital. “This is a valuable piece of jewelry, nothing less than a button from Wallenstein’s vest. It’s yours if you leave us alone.”

  The boy took the button and looked at it with interest, then shook his head and gave it back. “That’s the head of the Swedish king and doesn’t come from Wallenstein’s vest,” he answered emphatically. “You were lying to me.”

  “Damn, you little know-it-all!” Paulus said impatiently. “You’ve got your choice, take the button or we’ll beat you up. Which do you prefer, huh?”

  “If you hit me, I’ll scream,” the boy said with a grin, “and we’ll see what the guards have to say when they find you here behind the bush.”

  For the first time, Lukas took a close look at the boy. He was wearing the simple, filthy clothes of a servant, but Lukas saw something mischievous and defiant in his eyes that he found touching, though he didn’t know why. The lad was clever. Lukas raised his hands in resignation.

  “Very well, you have won. Tell us what you want from us, then leave us in peace.”

  The boy crossed his arms over his chest and put on a stubborn face. “I’d like to belong to your gang. You’re a gang, right? I can tell things like that.”

  Paulus roared with laughter. “Listen to the little monkey! No taller than my belly button, and he wants to wander through the camp with us. Hey, run back to your mother and hide there. Hurry along!”

  “I don’t have a mother anymore,” the boy replied softly. “She’s dead.”

  For a moment, silence reigned. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Lukas said finally, and nodded sympathetically. “What’s your name anyway, kid?”

  “Daniel,” the boy answered after hesitating briefly.

  “Listen,” Jerome whispered to the others. “This is a waste of our time. We’ve seen enough, and we’re not going to shake off this little mite. Let’s come back some other time, all right?”

  Giovanni and Paulus nodded, but Lukas kept looking at Daniel, who seemed to be waiting for their decision. “He seems to have no one to watch over him,” Lukas whispered. “He’s all alone in this camp—”

  “There’s surely someone around to look after him,” Paulus interrupted and tugged at Lukas’s sleeve. “Come on now. We really have more important things to do than to look after a little brat like him.”

  “You’re probably right.” Lukas sighed and reluctantly went along with them.

  Daniel continued standing defiantly behind the bush, his arms crossed. He didn’t shout, he didn’t cry, and it was perhaps this silence that moved Lukas most of all. The boy’s eyes seemed to follow him until he’d disappeared with the others behind the tents.

  In the coming days, Lukas remained tormented by the knowledge that Waldemar von Schönborn had finally arrived in the camp. A few times his amulet started to feel hot, always in the hours just before daybreak.

  Their marches between encampments were hard and tedious and brought them farther and farther northeast. There was also work to do in the evening, so the boys had no more opportunity to observe the headquarters. They usually fell asleep as soon as they lay down.

  On the fourth day, there was another chance when Lukas was sent out to get a barrel of brandy for Zoltan and the officers. This time he got to within a few steps of the headquarters. Hiding behind a moss-covered boulder, he watched the busy comings and goings in front of Wallenstein’s barracks. He was just about to turn around when the door opened and out stepped a figure he would never forget as long as he lived.

  It was Waldemar von Schönborn.

  The inquisitor wore the same cloak he had on when Lukas’s mother was burned at the stake in Heidelberg. A monk’s cowl covered his thinning gray hair, and his hooked nose gave him an imperious and cruel appearance as he scrutinized the area around the headquarters.

  For an instant, Lukas thought Schönborn had seen him, but that was impossible, as he was well hidden behind the rock. Still, he felt the inquisitor’s gaze like a knife in his chest. A murderous passion swept over him; he wanted simply to attack Schönborn and slit him open with his sword, but no doubt the guards would stop him first. Besides, then Lukas himself would surely be put to the stake, and he would never learn anything about Elsa’s fate.

  No, he had to proceed more rationally. But how? As he regarded his enemy now for the first time in more than a year, his plan suddenly seemed unbelievably childish and foolish. Schönborn had taken Elsa with him from their parents’ castle and had attached great importance to sparing her life, but did that mean he knew where she was now—and even if he did, how could Lukas ever find out? Should he just go to Schönborn and ask him? That sounded so foolish that he almost broke out laughing, which would have revealed his hiding place. Instead, tears of anger rolled down his cheeks, and he sobbed quietly. Here he stood, only a spear’s throw away from his parents’ murderer, yet he was completely powerless. He’d never felt so lonely, so small. His whole journey up to now had been pointless.

  He sat down on the rock and let his tears flow.

  “Why are you crying?” asked a voice behind him. Lukas spun around and saw little Daniel, who appeared to be once again roving around the area. He had to be from a regiment very close by. Strangely, Lukas wasn’t angry at all that Daniel had interrupted his snooping again. Looking back one last time at the headquarters, he saw that Schönborn had gone back into the barracks anyway.

  “I’m . . . crying because of my parents,” Lukas said after a while, wiping his tears away. “They are dead, just like your mother, and I feel so alone.” He smiled sadly. “Those are two things we have in common.”

  “My father is alive, but he never has much time for me,” Daniel replied in a flat voice, picking his nose. “Sometimes it’s just like he was dead. Except, he can get really angry if I’ve done something wrong.”

  Lukas laughed and found he was already feeling better, talking with the child. “All fathers are like that,” he told Daniel. “Don’t worry too much about it—just nod and look ashamed when he scolds you. The storm passes usually as fast as it came.”

  Daniel grinned. “Thanks for your advice. I’ll try that the next time.”

  “Does your father know you are wandering around here?” Lukas asked.

  Daniel shrugged. “I don’t think he cares. He always has so much to do.” Suddenly he turned around, frightened. “Oh, I think the guards have seen us.”

  In fact, two of the soldiers were looking at them suspiciously. “Hey, you kids,” one of them shouted. “Why are you hanging around? You have no business being here, so take off!”

  Lukas pressed his lips
together grimly. “I’ve got to go,” he said to the boy, “but I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

  “Will you ask your friends if they’d take me into your gang?” Daniel pleaded. “Please?”

  “I . . . can’t promise you anything, but perhaps we can take you along when we go out into the forest to practice sword fighting and shooting.”

  Daniel’s eyes gleamed. “That would be great!” he shouted gleefully. “It’s so boring here, and no one wants to play with me. I’m so alone. Like you. But I don’t have friends like you do.”

  “I’ll see you soon, Daniel.” Lukas gave him a good-bye pinch on his dirty cheek, and then he left, trying to sort out all his feelings. The short conversation with Daniel had made it clear to him that despite all the problems, he’d found something very valuable.

  A friend.

  His trip, then, hadn’t been entirely in vain.

  “You really want to bring the kid along when we practice shooting?”

  Giovanni shook his head in disbelief. They’d just met again in the old covered wagon, and Lukas had told his friends of his recent observations.

  “Why not?” he insisted. “How can it hurt to bring him along?”

  “Just wait a minute, Lukas.” Paulus cast a stern eye at him. “We followed you through half the Reich to find this accursed Schönborn, and now suddenly you want us to care for children? We have other things to do. We should stick to our plan.”

  “May I remind monsieur we still don’t have any plan?” said Jerome. “We’re just assuming that Schönborn knows something about where Lukas’s sister is, but we haven’t the slightest idea how to get him to talk.”

  “You could ask Senno to cast a spell on the inquisitor for you so he’ll let us in on where Elsa is,” Paulus said sarcastically. “Then the magician can prove what truth there is to his white and black magic.”