The next minutes passed by like a dream. Frederich went out of his mind and his reality was funnelled into a world where only Scheffler’s fists and his own existed. He ducked and dodged Scheffler’s punches, and used the few split-second windows he had to bash a fist into Scheffler’s enormous head and body. Just when it felt like the fight would never end, Scheffler began to tire. He overextended on his next punch and Frederich seized the opportunity, double jabbing Scheffler’s nose and landing a hook punch to the side his head with a loud pop. Scheffler’s head jerked from the impact and he took a step back, leaving blood pouring down the side of his face. He remained firmly on his feet but held his chin and fists lower while showing no sign of swaying or hesitating. Instead, he hardened his stance and came forward again to begin his counter-attack. He’s not human. Frederich braced himself for the inevitable knockout blow. It was then that Otto stomped through the middle and held his palms out toward each of them.
“No more!” he yelled.
Frederich and Scheffler stood on opposite ends and continued staring at each other while covered in sweat, their chests heaving up and down. Frederich was grasping at his side and Scheffler’s fists were still cocked. Two of the armed guard ran forward from behind Scheffler and pointed their rifles at Frederich.
“No, don’t shoot!” yelled Otto. “Don’t shoot! Stand down!”
The guards lowered their guns slightly and looked at Scheffler. Frederich knew that if Scheffler gave the word, he was dead. He held his breath and waited.
“Get out!!” screamed Scheffler in a fit of manic rage.
Otto put a hand on Scheffler’s shoulder and spoke something into this ear.
“I don’t give a shit!” he yelled, pushing Otto’s arm away. “Out! You’re done! Finished!” he screamed at Frederich.
Frederich turned stiff. He felt simultaneously relieved and terrified. He pictured the gruelling journey he was about to take over the Alps for which he was in no shape. He had no choice. He turned around and began limping toward the dorm rooms, still clutching his side.
“No, you stay here, or you’re out too!” yelled Scheffler.
Frederich turned around and saw Piotr standing behind him. Frederich shook his head.
“Stay,” he said. “You didn’t go through all this for nothing.”
“This is bullshit,” said Piotr.
“Hey, back here! Last chance!” yelled Scheffler again from behind.
“I busted Scheffler’s face open. I got what I wanted,” said Frederich.
Piotr turned to get a glimpse of Scheffler.
“Yes, you did. Nice work,” he said with a half smirk.
“We’ll see each other again soon. Thanks for having my back,” said Frederich.
“Anytime, brother.”
The two of them shook hands and Frederich turned back toward the dorm rooms. In no time he was packed, and with an empty stomach and aching ribs he found himself alone in the snow, deep in the mountains and a gruelling march away from the closest town.
24
The wheels of the black Mercedes hummed and rattled over the cobbled road before braking at the pedestrian crossing. Tourists strolled around Trinity Square in Budapest on what was a crisp, bright morning. Kalakia looked out from the back seat while they were stopped beside the Holy Trinity Statue, which Kalakia recalled was built centuries earlier to fend off the plague. It had been lavishly adorned with angels and saints and was eclipsed from behind by the gothic-styled Matthias Church. Kalakia thought about all the kings who had been coronated metres away from him. Then he shook his head at the absurdity of it all.
He could not have cared less for The Castle District. Royalty and grandeur were part of a bygone era. He preferred to stay planted in reality, although he still acknowledged the need for symbolism. It was a core part of the human psyche. Symbolism meant there was something more behind the surface, something sacred yet tangible, and above all, meaningful. The League itself was a symbol for justice and honour, which explained why Kalakia tolerated The Council hosting their meetings in a pomp setting, surrounded by the House Of Habsburg. With The League’s obscure shadow formation, such formalities allowed the leadership to project tradition and legitimacy. To Kalakia, the whole thing was a charade of ageing men living in the past. He believed that power was best demonstrated through action rather than image.
He was feeling more cynical than usual that morning. His strange mood began when Francois told him that Frederich had clashed yet again with Scheffler and had been cast out for good. The news left Kalakia deeply disappointed. He was chasing a pipe dream, he admitted; an incorruptible protege with abundant potential. He had overestimated Frederich’s ability to fall into line, and Scheffler had failed to tame the beast. Harsh reality had won. Now Kalakia would have to pick a name off The Council’s list. The amount of hubris within that group was glaring, and it continued to trouble Kalakia. They all had unique potential, but they were also compromised in ways that Kalakia was sure would lead to their downfall. The signs were ominous. The League was heading into precarious territory.
When the road cleared they left the Holy Trinity Statue behind and neared the entrance to their destination just before Buda Castle. Kalakia’s car was flanked front and back by two SUVs containing his security detail. Their fleet cruised over the cobbles before the front car led them into the underground carpark wedged between a museum and a hotel. The security gate lifted and one of the three armed security guards waved as they drove in. Inside there were over a dozen luxury cars already parked, including Stirner’s black Bentley Mulsanne. They pulled into three consecutive parking spaces and Kalakia waited for his men to exit their vehicles and move into position before emerging. Together they marched into the elevator and went up to the fourth floor, where Stirner was waiting in the
