Morgarten (Book 2 of the Forest Knights) (16 page)

He looked at her. His eyes were cold and distant at
first, but they began to soften the harder Seraina squeezed his
arm.

“You cannot kill him,” she said.

His eyes narrowed and blinked, like she had told him
something truly ridiculous.

“I must,” he said. “There is a checkpoint fifteen
minutes from here. He will bring a dozen men before we are even
half loaded.”

Seraina looked at the young soldier. Thomas still
held him with one strong hand twisted in his hair. The boy was less
than twenty, and the way his chest heaved with deep, frenzied
breaths, reminded Seraina of a wounded deer who knew the hunter
would be along soon enough.

“There is rope on the boat. We could tie him,”
Seraina said.

Thomas scowled. “We may need that rope. And even if
we did not, we owe his kind no mercy. Not after what they did. And
what they stand to do.”

Seraina stepped forward. “There is another way.”

“You do not know his kind like I do,” Thomas said,
shaking his head.

She let go of Thomas’s arm, slowly. “Trust me,” she
said.

He stared at her for a long time but, eventually, he
relinquished his grip on the boy’s hair and stepped back.

A boulder at the soldier’s back was the only thing
that stopped him from scrambling away. He pressed himself against
the stone and looked from face to face, then pleaded in a rattled
voice. “I swear I will not utter a word of what I saw. If you let
me go, I swear it.”

Seraina saw the dagger in Thomas’s hand twitch, so
she stepped between the two men before it was too late. She
crouched in front of the soldier at eye level.

“Do I have your word you will stay exactly where you
are? To not move until someone comes looking for you?”

“I swear. On the Virgin Mother, I swear it.”

“He lies,” Thomas said, moving forward.

Seraina stopped him with a glare. “Trust me,” she
said.

She reached down and gripped the boy’s lower leg
with both her hands. He tried to pull it away, but she tightened
her hold.

“You too must trust me,” she said. “If you wish to
live.”

The boy looked at Thomas, hovering close behind
Seraina, and at the naked blade he held, and went very still. He
nodded.

Seraina probed above his ankle with her fingers. She
slid one hand along the larger bone of his lower leg; the mother
bone. Beside it was the child bone, which was slender, and much
smaller. Together they nurtured one another and were capable of
supporting a great deal of weight.

With a deft twist of her hand, Seraina stretched the
bottom of the mother bone away from its base. The young soldier
yelped and pulled his foot away.

“What are you doing to me, witch?”

Saving your life. And ours.

Seraina stood. “You are fine. But do not try to
stand for at least twelve hours. The mother bone will need time to
re-align herself.”

He eyed her while he flexed his toes and rolled his
ankle. Seraina knew he felt no pain. He had only been surprised by
the odd sensation of Seraina shifting his mother bone.

She turned to Thomas. “We can go now.”

He stared at her and made no move to sheath his
knife.

“Trust me, Thomas.”

“You keep saying that,” he said.

“And I will continue saying it until I see by your
eyes that you do.” Seraina pointed to the boat. “Prepare for
cast-off, ferryman.”

Thomas shook his head, but he returned his blade to
his belt.

“
You
are the ferryman?” the boy said. His
eyes went wide. “The outlaw that attacked the Duke and shot his
man?”

Thomas gave no response, but kept one eye on the
soldier while he untied the boat’s bow line and pulled it closer to
the shore.

Seraina picked up a water skin and placed it next to
the boy. “Remember. Do not attempt to stand until this time
tomorrow.”

They pushed out into the lake and Thomas busied
himself with setting the sail. Soon, the trees on the shore
obscured their view of the soldiers’ camp, but they were still near
enough to hear the boy’s pain-choked scream.

Fool, fool, fool. I warned him.

Thomas jerked his head up at the sound.

“What happened?” he asked.

Seraina shook her head sadly. The foolish boy had
tried to stand. But with his mother bone pulled out of line, only
the child was left to support the boy’s entire body. It would have
snapped in half with even a fraction of that weight.

“I told him to trust me,” she said.

Thomas and Noll sat at a table near the inn’s
entrance. They leaned their backs against the wall, with untouched
mugs of mead before them, and waited for Pomponio.

“When he comes, I will do the talking,” Noll
said.

Thomas nodded. He would not have it any other way.
He had no desire to exchange words with the likes of Pomponio.
Thomas looked around the tap room. It was more crowded than he
would have liked. The evening rush had just begun, and three women
and a man ferried drinks and trays of simple food between the
kitchen and tables.

Noll’s knee bounced non-stop and every time the door
opened he looked up. Thomas rested his hands around his clay mug
and stared at it. Inside was a plum mead, and it had a reddish tint
that reminded him of Seraina’s hair at dusk. Mind you, since their
return from retrieving the swords, almost everything Thomas looked
at reminded him of Seraina. He looked at the mead again, and this
time was tormented with the memory of how her naked body had glowed
under the soft light of their campfire.

He was about to take a sip when the door opened.
Noll’s knee stopped bouncing. A second later the shadow of
Pomponio’s ridiculous hat fell over Thomas’s mug. As the shadow
grew, Thomas’s annoyance grew into an irrational anger, and he was
surprised to find himself gripping the mug tight enough to turn his
fingertips white.

“Master Melchthal,” Pomponio said in a booming
voice. His Venetian accent stood out, and several sets of eyes from
neighboring tables looked their way. He stood for a moment,
allowing curious onlookers to get their fill, and then sat down
across from Noll. He was accompanied by all four of his fellow
Venetians, and once Pomponio had settled himself, they also took up
spots across from Thomas and Noll.

Thomas looked up to find Salvatore’s broad shoulders
at eye level. The man plunked his elbows on the table and began
cleaning his fingernails with a long dagger, studiously oblivious
to all around him.

Pomponio held up a hand to get a server’s attention,
but Noll stopped him before he could shout his order.

“Any drink will be coming from your own purse
tonight,” Noll said.

Pomponio lowered his arm slowly. He turned to Noll.
“That was not our agreement,” he said.

“That agreement is no longer in effect,” Noll said.
“In fact, consider it terminated. Your services are no longer
required. You and your men have until tomorrow morning to gather
your belongings and leave Altdorf.”

The Venetians did not look the least bit surprised
at Noll’s words. Pomponio smiled and shook his head sadly.

“Master Melchthal,” he said. “Your men are just now
beginning to learn the fundamentals of the sword. If we leave, all
their training will have been for nothing. Next summer, when the
Austrians come, they will make very short work of your…
army.
”

Noll stared at him. “They will be ready,” he
said.

Pomponio leaned back and put his hands behind his
neck. “So you say. But tell me, who will train them? You?” The
disdain in his voice matched the contempt in his smile, and Thomas
found himself crushing his mug once again. But if the Venetian’s
attitude bothered Noll, he did not show it.

“No. He will,” he said, nodding toward Thomas.

Both Pomponio and Salvatore looked at Thomas like he
had just snatched the last piece of meat from a communal trencher.
Salvatore stopped fussing with his dagger, and with a slow,
deliberate motion he placed it on the table in front of him,
between himself and Thomas.

“Are you sure that is wise?” Pomponio said to Noll
while staring at Thomas’s face. “This man is obviously a soldier.
Perhaps even a decent one. Although, not good enough to avoid at
least one man’s steel, no?”

All the Venetians got a chuckle out of that. While
they laughed Thomas lifted his mug to his lips and took a long
drink. The mead no longer had the dark auburn hue of Seraina’s
hair. The liquid appeared much redder now.

Pomponio dismissed Thomas with his eyes and turned
back to Noll. “But a common soldier is no replacement for a sword
master from the most famous school in Venezia. You do your men a
disservice if you choose him over us, Master Melchthal. I fear you
will regret it.”

Noll cast a sidelong glance at Thomas. “You may be
right. But all the same, I want you gone by morning.”

Pomponio let out an exaggerated breath. “Very well.
You negotiate strong, my friend. Tell me what you are paying this
mercenary and we will work for merely double his fee, though we are
ten times the talent. A better bargain—”

“Thomas! By God I never figured to find you in the
first tavern I stuck my head in, but here you are!”

A small, wiry man, dressed smartly in a blue and red
vest, walked toward the table. The sword swinging at his side
seemed to be too long for him, but somehow it never dragged on the
ground or impeded his movement. His hair was pulled back neatly
from his face and glistened with oil. Hoop earrings dangled from
each ear and his clean-shaven face beamed as he shouted in Thomas’s
direction.

Thomas blinked.

Anton? Where had he come from?

Thomas had been so preoccupied with the Venetians he
had failed to see Anton come in the front door.

“Thought for sure I would have to spend the better
part of a day tracking you down,” Anton said. He gave a quick nod
to Noll and the Venetians and then stepped over the bench and
squeezed himself in between Pomponio and Salvatore. A normal-sized
man could never have accomplished the feat, but Anton was much
smaller than average.

“Planned on coming in here for a quick drink, or
three, and see if anyone knew you. But by the Grace of Mary, who is
the first person I set eyes on?” He looked around the table and
grinned, then slapped his hands down flat. “Well, I have
accomplished more today than I thought to, so let us get some
drinks. You lot look like you could use one as well.”

“Hello Anton,” Thomas said, knowing full well he
would just keep on rambling if Thomas did not say something. He
fought back a smile at how comical his friend looked squeezed
between the two scowling Venetians.

Pomponio’s scowl turned into a laugh, albeit one
with very little true humor behind it. “Is this another of our
replacements? One of the wandering folk is it?”

Anton smiled at first, but then Salvatore said, “She
smells good enough to eat.”

“What is that scent?” Pomponio asked. “Something
from your sister’s caravan?”

“Orange blossoms,” Anton said quietly. He no longer
smiled and Thomas could see his eyes beginning to hood over.

“Of course it is,” Pomponio said. He turned to Noll.
“Really, Master Melch—”

Anton drew back his arm and elbowed Pomponio in the
side of the head. He jumped up off the bench and stood calmly by
with one hand resting on the handle of the sword at his belt.

“Not sure if you was insulting me on purpose, or
not, but thought that would be the fastest way to find out,” Anton
said.

Everyone at the table froze. Pomponio, with his eyes
clenched tight, gave his head a few shakes and rubbed his temple.
Then, he slowly pushed himself to his feet. “This gnat has a sting,
no?”

Salvatore and the other Venetians relaxed as
Pomponio took up a position across from Anton. Salvatore licked his
lips. He pointed at Thomas.

“No one moves,” he said.

He inched his hand close to his dagger laying on the
table, and turned sideways on his bench so he could see Pomponio,
as well as keep one eye on Thomas and Noll.

Pomponio faced Anton and slid his narrow-bladed
sword out of its scabbard. There was a shout from a nearby table
and people fell over themselves to give the two men some room.

“Before I teach you today’s lesson, I would have
your name,” Pomponio said.

“Aye, you would,” Anton said. “If I was of a mind to
give it to you.”

Pomponio grinned. “Well, my rude gypsy friend, let
me introduce
myself
. I am Giovanni—”

Gissler was the fastest man with a blade Thomas had
ever seen. But no one was quicker than Anton when it came to moving
unarmed. One moment he was standing relaxed with his hand resting
on his sword handle, and the next he seemed to materialize beside
Pomponio. Perhaps, because Anton had never drawn his weapon,
Pomponio’s mind had failed to recognize him as a threat. Or, maybe
Anton was simply too quick. Whatever the reason, Pomponio had a
puzzled look on his face when Anton seized his wrist, forced the
point of his sword against the wooden floor, and then stomped on
it. The thin blade snapped like second-year kindling. Anton then
twisted Pomponio’s wrist back against itself and there was another
snap, followed by a scream as Pomponio dropped to his knees.

“Do not much care what your name is,” Anton said,
and then brought his knee up into Pomponio’s face.

Strange, Thomas thought, how a man’s screams never
reveal even a hint of his accent. Pain sounded the same in any
language.

Salvatore’s hand snaked out for his knife. It
fumbled blindly, once, twice, before he tore his eyes away from
Anton kicking Pomponio on the ground. He turned just in time to see
Thomas drive Salvatore’s own dagger into the back of his hand,
pinning it against the table. His screams became the new loudest
sound in the tavern.