Escape from the Past (18 page)

I threw a glance at Luanda who shook her head.

“Max, get the bread from the shelf,” she said, placing earthen mugs on the table and filling three bowls from the cast-iron pot.

The table was quiet as we ate, Bero shoving huge quantities of oatmeal with dried blueberries into his mouth, me eating more slowly and actually enjoying my food. The tea reminded me of my
Opa’s
hay barn, the chamomile slightly sweet and the mint adding sharpness.

Bero braced his head on one elbow as if it were too heavy. He looked pale next to the blooming purple bruises.

“What happened yesterday?” I asked.

Bero squinted into a frown and shrugged. “Can’t remember.”

“What do you mean, you can’t remember?” I pushed away my bowl. For once, I felt full and satisfied.

“What I said. I don’t know.”

“Your pigs are dead. You remember that?” It was out before I had time to think. “I found you in the stall beaten to a pulp.”

“Nay, you’re lying,” Bero said. He’d slowly gotten up. An angry flush colored his cheeks.

Luanda put a knotty hand on his arm. “It’s true. You got hit over the skull and forgot. It will pass.”

Bero kept shaking his head. “Nay!” Then he walked to the door, yanked it open and walked out.

“He’s confused,” I said.

“Give him time.”

I nodded. “Thank you for all your help. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. You saved Bero’s life…and my feet.”

The old woman nodded. “You must leave soon before morn is over. It isn’t safe.”

“But you said we should stay another night.” I longingly eyed the bed. The feeling of warmth and fullness in my middle made me sleepy and I wanted nothing more than another safe night in a clean-smelling bed.

“It is better if you leave quickly.”

I forced myself to straighten. “In that case I better see what’s going on with him.”

Bero sat on a stone at the far end of the garden. He’d hunched over and held his head as if it were too heavy to carry. He moaned quietly, a wounded animal’s cry for help.

“You okay?” I said.

Bero didn’t move.

“Look man, I’m sorry for breaking it to you this way. I thought you knew…” I scanned the river, visible between the bushes and reeds, water lapping against the shore, a soothing gurgle. I wanted to crawl back inside, lie down and rest, but I knew it was a false sense of security. The feeling of worry was back as if something were nagging in the depth of my stomach.

Still Bero sat. “What does
okay
mean?” he finally mumbled.

“It means fine or good or better.”

“What are we going to do?” he said without acknowledging he’d heard me.

“We must leave and seek help at the castle. We’ll go by the dressmaker and buy a sweater first.”

“Sweater?”

“I mean a tunic for winter. I’ve been freezing my butt off for days.”

Bero got up and began to sway.

“Easy, boy. I’ll help you.” I threw an arm around Bero’s bony shoulders. “No worries, I got you.”

“What’s happening to me?” Bero said. He sounded confused.

“Ott beat you up. Then he killed your pigs.”

“
Ach,
my sows,” Bero sobbed. He stopped walking, hanging on my arm like a fifty-pound sack of potatoes.

“We’ll buy new ones. First we need to get to a safe place.”

“Where?”

“Hanstein.”

“Why would we go to the castle?”

“Cause the Lord knows us.”

“He does?”

I sighed. It’d be a long day. All I hoped was that Bero would regain his memory. Right now the guy sounded like a moron. Or like Bero used to say, a dimwit.

“Give him this?” Luanda said when we left. She held out a cloth bag that was very light. “Prepare a tea, let stand for a few minutes. Make a compress and cover his head and bruises. Don’t let him drink it.”

I nodded and stuck the bundle in my pocket.

“This is for you,” she said and handed me a stone jar, half the size of my palm. “For your feet.”

“Thanks.”

“Be safe, Max Nerds and Bero.”

We followed the path uphill. After the meadow and brush near the river’s edge, we entered the shadows of the trees. Bero walked slowly and I soon got impatient.

“Let me help you,” I offered, but Bero pushed away my hand.

“I’m fine.”

I shook my head in frustration. A blind man could see that Bero wasn’t fine. His usually light gait had been replaced by heavy steps. He swayed and panted like an old man. At this rate we’d take hours to get to the castle and though nobody was on the path, I got more and more anxious. Whenever the trees grew thinner, brush took their place. It was easy to hide and ambush someone. We’d be in no shape to fight or run.

“I want to rest,” Bero finally said.

“A little longer.”

Bero nodded and stumbled on. “I’m cold.”

“We’re heading to the dressmaker to get coats.”

“Coats?”

“Tunics.”

“I thought we’re going to see the Lord.”

“We are, but first—”

The sound of clinking metal reached my ear. There was a something sharp and ruthless about it. I pushed Bero off the trail into a patch of wild bush roses. We crawled underneath the thorny brambles and lay still. The noise came from uphill, the direction we were going. Fierce cries and shouts rang out, horses neighed, followed by screams of pain. Men were fighting.

I sighed. They weren’t after us. Someone else was fighting a battle and I had no desire to be discovered.

“Lie still,” I whispered. Without waiting for an answer, I crept forward to find an opening in the thicket. My belly turned muddy while the thorns tore at my back. The mayhem uphill grew louder, metal crashing on metal, fierce shouts and blood-curdling screams and in the background whimpering and moaning. An icy hand took hold of my stomach and squeezed tight. This was a real battle, not some stupid game. Nothing about the sounds was pretend and I felt panic take away my air. And I wasn’t even close enough to see anything.

Yet, I was curious to see who was involved and what was happening. I’d seen paintings of battle scenes, movies like
Braveheart
and
The Lord of the Rings.
What if we were found and dragged into the bloodshed? We’d be slaughtered. As real as everything had felt until now, I knew I’d die and nobody at home, my real home, would ever know. Or was that the goal of the game and I’d wake up in my room?

I felt movement next to me and winced in fright. It was Bero. I sighed.

“Who’s fighting?”

“No idea.” I wanted to find out, but couldn’t make myself move. The fear was too great, the sounds uphill too deadly.

We waited in silence. The damp ground was nearly frozen and the warmth from earlier had long disappeared. Still we waited. After a while I peeked over. Bero had gone to sleep, his pale face peaceful despite the terrible swelling. Little by little the battle noises died down. An isolated moan could be heard, a couple of shouts. Then silence.

I was tempted to sneak uphill. Just when I’d made up my mind to investigate, three horses galloped past us in neck-breaking speed. The riders wore armor and helmets and some kind of crest. Even their horses, head to rump, were covered under yellow blankets, breast armor and face shields. I thought I saw a blue and yellow crest, something like a lion, but the riders seemed to fly past.

A split second later, nine more horses followed. Their riders hunkered low on the saddle in obvious pursuit. This time, I could’ve sworn I recognized Werner von Hanstein, the blond curls and the three crescent moons on his shield clearly visible.

At last, the forest turned still. I shoved Bero in the arm. “Wake up, time to go.”

Bero looked confused again. He yawned and sat up.

“We have to be absolutely quiet,” I urged. “Is there another way into the village?”

Bero shook his head.

Crouching low we moved uphill. Since the undergrowth on either side was thick it was nearly impossible to stay off the path. As we climbed over the rise, the trees opened into a meadow, a wide terrace before rising toward a second higher hill.

I gasped in horror.

The formerly green pasture looked wounded. The earth had been upturned, gashed and gnawed, and soaked in blood. Two dozen men and several horses lay strewn in heaps where they had fallen. Some had swords sticking out of their chests, unprotected armpits and even visors. An eerie quiet filled the air as if the men’s souls were drifting above. I swallowed, my mouth
bitter. I wanted to throw up. Somebody had lain in ambush in the trees and attacked. These men had fought to the death.

We had to get away as quickly as possible. Still I couldn’t. I took a step, then another, the gruesomeness drawing me in. Bero clambered next to me. He looked green.

An arm lay in the grass by itself, cut off above the elbow. Its owner hadn’t made it far. He lay on his stomach, the soil around him darkish red. I moved on, avoiding looking at the gaping hole of bones and muscle. I stepped carefully to keep my feet away from the slimy spots that seemed to spread out in front of me. The air stunk of something metallic and emptied bowels, the smell of death. My stomach heaved.

Someone moaned. I stopped to listen as I scanned the lifeless bodies, the codes of armor and shields. Most of them showed a yellow lion on a blue background. Another groan, louder. It came from across the field where a giant black horse stood nibbling at something on the ground.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

Bero nodded. The green color had turned parchment yellow, but he followed me nonetheless.

Next to the horse at the edge of the battlefield a man lay on his back. I recognized the crest of Hanstein on his sleeve and broken shield. The horse quietly neighed and tucked at the man’s armored shoulder. I carefully opened the visor. It was the burly knight who’d sat next to me at Werner’s table. The man’s eyes looked glazed as he tried to focus on my face.

“What happened?” I said. How stupid was that. “I mean, let’s get you to the castle.”

Groaning, the man raised a feeble hand to reveal a tear in his leather vest. The ragged hole below was filled with blood and the grayish slime of intestines.

“…late,” he sputtered. With every breath, blood gurgled out of the opening as if he had an endless supply. “My steed, care…” I leaned closer. “Revenge, Max Ner—”

Silence. The burly knight stared blindly into the sky. I had never seen a dead person. I’m playing a game, I thought. But I didn’t believe myself. Not anymore.

Crows squawked in the trees above. They had come to feast. I closed the knight’s lids and his visor. A new wave of nausea hit me mixed with intense hatred. Some coward had attacked Werner and his men.

“Let’s take the horse and run,” I said.

Bero stood next to me, his face a new shade of green. “Not the horse.”

“We’ll take it to Hanstein.”

Bero shook his head. “They’ll say we stole it.”

“But we’re returning it
to
the castle. Werner will know we didn’t take it.”

The horse had raised its head as if to listen. I tucked at the reins. To my relief it followed without struggle. It was nearly as large as Werner’s warhorse, a beautiful mahogany brown with a black mane and braided tail. I led it toward the path, away from the strewn corpses and the smells of death.

Bero followed without a word. He looked angry and sick at the same time and soon fell behind. I remembered Bero’s ordeal and slowed down. The horse was humongous, its back the same height as my head, the saddle even higher. Its blanket was sticky with half-dried blood. I wanted to get it home quickly. Horses weren’t exactly my thing: too large with hooves that could squash you. Still, I had to take the poor thing away from this… I shook my head, but the images of the dead men remained.

“Coming?” I yelled, rubbing the horse’s nose.

Bero continued his slow pace. He strolled without a care in the world, except that he swayed and his eyes had turned blank.

“Climb on the horse,” I said.

Bero shook his head and walked past me.

“Bero!” Stubborn fool, I thought as I coaxed the horse to move on. We were taking way too long. “Climb on the darn horse,” I
hissed, catching up to him. Bero looked at me as if asleep.

“What?”

“Get in the saddle. I’ll help you. We should hurry—it’s dangerous.” I scanned the sky and shivered. Behind us crows squawked and buzzards circled lower.

Without a word Bero pulled himself up and promptly got stuck. I untangled his shirt from the saddle and grabbed the reins once more.

“Hold on,” I said, my voice too loud in the stillness. I fell into a run, once in a while turning back to make sure that my friend was still on top. Bero’s hands clawed the horse’s mane but his eyes remained wide and unfocused. He looked like a kid who’d gone crazy.

The next hill crested and I slowed down. In front of us the land fell away and I made out Bornhagen in the distance.

“That was the Lord’s knight,” Bero said as if the sight of his village had given him new energy.

I nodded. “I think I saw Werner give chase earlier. Wonder what happened. You think they were Ott’s men?”

Bero shook his head. “The dead men wore the crest of the Duke?”

“Duke?”

“Von Schwarzburg, the tax man.”

“The beadle?”

“That one.”

“How do you know?”

“I know the lion’s mark.”

I remembered Lord Werner’s fist smashing into the table, swearing to free Lady Clara. Had they fought the beadle to free her? Had Werner succeeded? But where was the lady?

“Let’s hurry and get our clothes. Then we’ll go to the castle.”

Bero nodded and we veered off toward the south end of the village. In the distance, the mighty rock of castle Hanstein stood waiting.

Bornhagen looked sleepy as we approached the dressmaker’s shop. Most peasants worked the fields, probably prepping for winter crops. It was just as well. I wanted to avoid the chance of running into the rat or anyone else for that matter. Nobody could be trusted. I realized how little I knew about the people who lived here. Maybe they all spied. And they’d probably sell their own mother for a few extra coins, not to mention a strange-looking guy with short hair and weird clothes…or the pig herder who didn’t have a father.