The Enterprise of Death (8 page)

Obviously he could not stay awake the entire trip west, and so some part of him was relieved when they made their move in the morning. Get it out of the way now, and quickly. The Kristobel cousins were key, and if he could break them then the odds were back on his side.

“Manuel,” Werner greeted him, and from the man’s honest grin Manuel knew what he was about. “Think I’ll help’er with the business this morn so she don’t mess your boots gain. Sir.”

“You can’t have her.” Manuel addressed the bunched-up trio of Kristof Kristobel, Kuhlhoff Kristobel, and Bernardo as much as Werner. “Von Swine’s kept the pay until we get back with a letter, which we won’t get if anything’s done to her, right? So a fat purse later or a poke with a witch now and maybe a hanged neck for the trouble, which is no choice to my mind. Put yours from it.”

“Witch?” said Werner, and Manuel hoped he had not erred in disclosing this. He had. “Well then, I figure it ain’t my fault what I’m bout, is it? She done bewitched me. She bewitched you lot?”

“I ain’t fuckin no witch,” said Kristof, crossing his arms. That settled it for Manuel—if he took out Werner quickly that would leave Bernardo, and with the Kristobels—

“I will,” said Kuhlhoff. “Why not? See if she’s cold inside like they say, eh?”

This left Manuel with a serious problem. One Kristobel simply was not enough, and he doubted—

“Settled, then,” Werner said, and Manuel noticed the dagger in the man’s left hand. When had he drawn that?

“Ya said we could toss fa first,” said Bernardo, pushing between the Kristobels. Manuel let his eyes flit over their camp but did not back down as the second man advanced up the small rise. Terrain was far from everything in a battle but he had the high ground for a moment, the rest having set their fire lower on the side of the hill facing away from the road, but the lack of vegetation save for hazel trees would not help her hide even if she were able to get away, and Werner was too close, far too close.

“Right,” said Manuel, recognizing that they had left him little choice if he wanted to safely return to his vulnerable family. Werner and the rest would take turns with the witch on the hillside, leaving the wet sackcloth and chains in place, her silence of the march possibly broken by muffled screams. Manuel would want to go off a distance, maybe vomiting from the sight and sounds, but he must force himself to watch lest they get carried away. If she were to survive the rest of the trip to Spain he would have to make sure none of them were too fierce, and that meant observing every time, especially with Werner. She was a witch, and so of course no questions would be asked when she was delivered, and then back to von Stein and payment, and back to his family. Katharina—

Bernardo hoisted the sack-covered woman to her feet, Werner still watching Manuel closely, and in that instant the artist resolved never to see his wife again. Better not to see Katharina at all than not be able to look her in the eye, better to sleep forever than never be able to sleep well again. Fuck that, and fuck them.

“Sacrifice,” said Manuel. “God is sacrifice. I heard that, somewhere, but it stuck. The very idea that money, money earned through evil acts, that money could be more important to Him than to act in His image, to sacrifice oneself … it’s preposterous, isn’t it? Preposterous!”

“What?” Werner tightened his hold on his dagger. “What in fuck are you on bout?”

“What in fuck.” Manuel nodded sagely. “Indeed. I’m talking about sacrificing the little lamb there. Oi, Bernardo, I get first go and there’ll be no fuckin tosses for it, other than who goes second.”

Bernardo looked at Werner, who squinted at Manuel. Behind them the Kristobels relaxed their shoulders, and Manuel wondered if they would have backed him after all. Too late now, and he winked at Werner as he pushed past him. Would the rapist plant the dagger in his back or in his neck? Manuel held his breath as their shoulders brushed, but then Werner clapped him on the back.

“You’re alright then, Manuel!” Werner laughed. “I like goin last myself, anyhow. Give
Master Artiste
first go, Bernie.”

“You said—” Bernardo began but Manuel cut him off.

“I’ve got some butter in my bag that’s a little sour. Fetch it for me and I’ll give you next.” Manuel’s grimace must have looked enough like desire for Bernardo not to question him further, and he trotted to the artist’s pack. Werner was saying something loud to the Kristobels and Manuel roughly grabbed the witch’s shoulders, wondering if he addressed the back of her head or her face as he chanced a whisper.

“When I said, you are run,” Manuel said in perfectly lousy Spanish. He almost gagged on his words, his voice sounding impossibly loud. “Fuck, I hoping your comprehend.”

“I understand, Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of Bern.” The witch’s voice ghosted through her hood in far smoother Spanish than
his, and Manuel froze. Her use of his name unsettled him greatly, and for just a moment he wondered if she really was a witch. Then he asked himself if it would change his actions if she were, and he had to admit it would not. She had not given any previous indication she understood him at all, and certainly none that she could speak—

“Take the chains off,” the witch whispered. “But first the mask. I’ll be blind until my eyes adjust, so stall them once it’s off. Don’t be rash.”

“Did she fuckin say somefinn?!” said Bernardo.

“She’s begging me to not let you fuck her,” Manuel replied, unlacing the slit in her hood and widening it enough to get his hand inside. He felt her hot cheek as he clumsily fumbled with the blindfold, the stink of neglect and waste wafting out of the hole in her covering making his own eyes water. He got the blindfold up, and as he removed his hand he saw her brown eyes blink and begin bubbling over even in the shadowed interior of her hood. She was a Moor, he saw, and he laughed nervously at his folly—he had thought her face and bare feet were simply stained and dirty.

“Are you takin that off’er?” Werner asked, and Manuel heard his boots squeaking in the wet leaves as he approached.

“If I didn’t care what my hole looked like I’d have stuck a sack over one of you bastards soon’s Paula and her stargazers jumped boat,” said Manuel, spinning the Moor around to get at the clasps on the chain at her back.

“She’s a witch,” said Kristof, panic in his voice. “If you let’er go she’ll do something!”

“Aye,” said Werner from beside Manuel, and it did not relax the artist to see the man had traded his dagger for a sword. “She’ll do somethin, alright, four somethins. Five, if you stop bein a cunt, Kristobel!”

Manuel removed the pin locking the waist chain in place and
the heavy iron fell on his boots, the edges of the sack bulging and popping as she flexed her arms. Werner gave Manuel a smile, the sort of smile fishermen exchange when one of them has landed something big, Bernardo beside him with the olive-tinted butter pooling in his sweaty little hand. Manuel almost threw up, far more nervous than he ever felt before a battle. Werner’s sword was right there—

“I hope you’re a fighter, bitch!” Werner barked beside Manuel’s ear. Manuel’s fingers were shaking as he slid out the pin from the neck chain. The iron had been tight as a dog collar against her throat, and as he tossed it aside he heard her take a deep breath but he could not warn her, he could not say anything, Werner was too close—

“I’ll give you space to work, Manuel.” Werner nodded knowingly, walking around the witch so that he stood above them on the hill, Bernardo still holding the butter out to Manuel to his left, and the Kristobels somewhere behind them. Manuel held his breath and, bunching the sackcloth in his fists, pulled the heavy, damp bag up and over her head, finally releasing the woman.

She was a girl, a naked girl, and there was nowhere for her to go. They were surrounded, and now she was standing nude and shivering in the pale dawn on the hill, and Manuel realized what he had done. They would both die on the hill, and she would be raped, and if he had not intervened he could have kept her alive, he could have kept her from seeing what they were doing to her, he could have—

— One always has a choice, Manuel knew, and he had made his. Werner’s sword was still out but he had backed away enough that Manuel stood an honest chance of drawing his own in time, assuming nobody stabbed him in the back.

“Well aren’t you gonna kiss’er?” Bernardo’s fetid breath drifted over the artist’s shaking shoulder, and Manuel tried to pull himself together.

“You actually kiss them, you fucking ponce?” Manuel grinned at Bernardo and snatched the lump of melting, rancid butter out of the mercenary’s extended palm. He took it with his left hand, his off hand, which Werner might have noticed if he were not laughing at Bernardo’s expense, and Werner laughed harder as Manuel shoved the butter in Bernardo’s mouth and shoved him backwards. Then Werner stopped laughing as he saw how hard Manuel had pushed, Bernardo falling backwards with his arms flailing, and Manuel saw the Kristobels were even closer than he had thought, and for some reason the assholes had their weapons drawn as well. For fuck’s sake.

Werner was hoisting his sword back and bounding forward even as Manuel’s right hand closed on the hilt of his own weapon, and before Bernardo had crashed onto the moist earth behind them everything went to shit. The witch ran exactly the wrong way, bumping into Manuel as she spun away from Werner and went behind the artist, directly toward the Kristobels and Bernardo. Manuel’s sword was still only half drawn as Werner brought his weapon around, but the prospective rapist had swung it sidearmed and so Manuel was able to intercept the blow with the nonsheathed half of the blade, his wrist twisting painfully and his belt loops popping off as his scabbard was torn loose from the impact.

Manuel’s right fist was shaking and could not hold on to the heavy sword, his wrist sprained from the awkward parry. The sheath fell off the end of Manuel’s hand-and-a-half as he clumsily traded the weapon into his butter-slickened left hand, and then Werner was bringing his sword down again. Manuel hopped back out of the way, slipping down the hillside, but Werner did not hesitate, pressing the advantage. Manuel knew he had a moment or two before Bernardo was up and swinging behind him, to say nothing of the Kristobels, and he had to put Werner down at once or all was lost. More precisely, he thought
fuck fuck fuck
, but surely the veteran was aware of the rest.

Both of their swords were long and heavy, and once committed to a maneuver difficult to alter in their deadly course. Manuel waited for Werner to swing again, and when the blow fell he again jumped out of range, only this time he swung his own sword sideways as he dodged, his swing perfectly timed to cut into Werner’s overextended sword arm. Unfortunately, the rancid butter coating Manuel’s palm collaborated with his momentum to send the sword leaping out of his hand, flying past Werner and embedding in the dirt.

“Fuck!” Manuel screamed as his botched attack sent him stumbling into Werner, but rather than trying to get his sword up in time Werner threw his elbow into Manuel’s ribs. Manuel fell past Werner but one of his kicking feet caught the mercenary behind the knee and Werner lurched forward down the hill. Manuel’s sword was right there, and he planted one hand on the ground beside it and snatched the weapon with the other, propelling himself to his feet. That was the idea, at least, but his sprained wrist buckled as he tried to push himself up and he fell back down, his buttery left hand slipping off the hilt of his weapon.

Werner was charging back up the hill toward him and, still on his knees, Manuel could gain his feet or his sword but not both. He chose the sword, and as Werner’s steel blade arced down at him Manuel twisted around. Seeing the flashing metal above him, the artist pitched himself forward to avoid it, belly-flopping onto the cold ground only to feel something stop his sword.

It was Werner, the tip of Manuel’s sword flush with the man’s spine. The hand-and-a-half had bounced off the top of Werner’s codpiece and passed through his linen and silk shirts and into his stomach. The momentum of Werner’s own missed swing carried him over to the side, skin and cloth tearing as he was disemboweled on Manuel’s sword. Werner was still screaming as he fell, his uncoiling intestine tangling on Manuel’s handguard and arresting
the man’s fall for a long and terrible pause until his gut tore and he hit the earth. Werner screamed and screamed as Manuel rolled onto his back, knowing Bernardo or one of the Kristobels was right behind him, knowing he was about to die but laughing in spite of it because at the very goddamn least he had field-dressed Werner like a deer.

There was no one there. Scrambling up and peeling Werner’s innards off the guard of his sword, Manuel saw two bodies at the base of the hill, and then a scream came from deeper in the wood just as Werner’s finally trailed off. Trotting cautiously down, he saw that the Kristobels lay side by side, their shirtfronts soaked with blood as though they were conjoined brothers fallen victim to an unsuccessful separation, clean swords still held in lily-white hands. Hearing the high scream again, he set off after Bernardo and the witch, delaying further investigation of the corpses.

Beyond the base of the hill was the undergrowth Manuel had longed for on the hillside, and when the scream did not come again he slowed to a walk, every juniper patch and hornbeam thicket carefully examined. Then he found a blood splatter on the ground, and, following the trail toward another hillock rearing up among the budding hazels, he heard a moan. Pushing through a clump of junipers, he found them at the mouth of a small cave in the side of the hill.