The Beggar King

Presumably, by then, the Prince of Darkness would have assumed a different form.

Coughing and gasping, Simon and Magdalena pushed open the door to the Whale and came face-to-face with about three dozen astonished guests. A moment before, a boisterous mood had prevailed in the room-laughter, singing, and the clinking of mugs as toasts were made-but now the room fell as silent as a cemetery.

Nervously the medicus checked Magdalena and himself for any outward symptoms of a contagious disease. And only then did he notice with horror that they were both completely covered in soot. The white linen shirt Simon had put on that morning had taken on the color of burned wood and was now dotted with so many burn holes that the fabric was almost falling apart. Ashes clung to Magdalena’s matted, charred hair, and only her eyes shone brightly from her sooty face. Bewildered, the guests could only stare at them.

“There’s… a fire down in the Wei?gerbergraben,” the medicus blurted out breathlessly. “We tried to help but the fire was just too great. We…”

His last words trailed off and were drowned out in the immediate uproar. Guests who were stone drunk just a moment ago now jumped up, shouting all at once; some attempted to crowd through the door where Simon and Magdalena still stood, forcing the pair back through the doorway, where they stared out at the bright glow of fire in the western sky over the city. Bells were ringing everywhere now, and when Simon heard what sounded like the angry buzz of a swarm of bees, it took him a few moments to realize it was, in fact, the collective sound of a thousand screaming voices.

Oh, God, is that really the fire that started in the bathhouse? he thought. How many houses are on fire now?

He tugged at Magdalena’s sleeve. “Let’s go and get some water. Looking the way we do, we might be suspected of having something to do with the fire.”

Magdalena nodded. She cast one last horrified glance back at the city skyline, silhouetted now against the bright orange blaze, then returned with Simon to the tavern. It had almost entirely emptied out, except for the Venetian, who was still sprawled out near the stove, just as they had left him hours ago. Silvio Contarini, whose curly black wig had slipped and was hanging crookedly across his forehead, looked besotted now. Alongside him three men were dozing, their heads resting on playing cards that floated in a puddle of wine in the middle of the table.

“Ah, la bella signorina and her valiant companion!” he purred. “What happened? You look as if you’ve only narrowly escaped your own funeral pyre.”

“We-we’ve had an accident,” Simon said crossly, nudging Magdalena forward. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to go and clean up a bit.”

“You must cleanse yourself internally.” Grinning, the Venetian pushed a jug of wine across the table. “Chilled Malvasia. That will rinse the ashes from your mouth.”

“Some other time. The lady is tired.” Tapping Magdalena on the behind, Simon was about to head upstairs when he met the lady’s furious stare and realized he’d gone too far.

“The lady can still decide for herself,” Magdalena snapped. “Perhaps the gentleman declines the offer of a glass of wine, but the lady would be pleased to relax and have a drink.”

Pulling away from Simon, she smiled at the Venetian. “A sip of wine would be just the right thing, thank you.”

“Certo!” Solicitously, Silvio nudged one of the drunken card players onto the floor so gently he didn’t even wake up. “You’ll find no better medicine in all of Regensburg,” the Venetian continued. “And no better place to forget your troubles.” He pointed to the empty seat.

Magdalena dropped down on the bench and helped herself to a tumbler of wine. The moment the first drops ran down her throat, she felt the alcohol’s exhilarating but calming effect. After the fire and the attempted murder, and after inhaling all that smoke, she badly needed a glass of wine.

“But…” Simon tried one last time, before Magdalena’s eyes flashed, silencing him. With a shrug, he hobbled up the stairs.

“Is your piccolo amico angry at me now?” Silvio asked after the sound of the footsteps had died away. He refilled Magdalena’s glass. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended him.”

Magdalena shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry… he’ll calm down again.” Then she picked up a cup of dice and shook it. “The loser gets the next round. Agreed?”

The Venetian smiled. “D’accordo.”

Dawn was breaking already, and Jakob Kuisl’s thoughts still tormented him. Memories plagued him, billowed through his mind like poisonous plumes, and try as he might, he couldn’t dispel them. He shut his eyes, and his thoughts drifted back to the past… the scent of gunpowder, the screams of the wounded, the blank eyes of the dead he tramples as he marches across the battlefield with his two-handed sword. For ten days they have laid siege to Magdeburg, and now Tilly orders the attack. Heavy artillery roars from barriers the sappers have erected, and massive cannonballs crash into and breach the city walls. Jakob and the other mercenaries run screaming through the streets, slaughtering anyone who crosses their paths. Men, women, children…

Little Jakob came of age in the war. He became a double mercenary-receiving twice the usual pay of ten guilders a month standing in the front line for Tilly. His colonel awarded him a master’s diploma for his use of the longsword, but mostly Jakob fights with a katzbalger, a shortsword designed to be thrust into the opponent’s gut, then twisted to slice open the intestines. Jakob still carries his two-handed sword on his back to terrify the enemy and win the respect of his own people.

Meanwhile word has gotten around that Jakob is the son of a hangman. That lends him a certain magical aura, even among his comrades. A hangman is a shaman, a traveler between two worlds. When Jakob needs money, he sells pieces of gallows rope, forges bullets that never miss, and sells amulets that make their wearers invincible. At eighteen years of age he is a bear of a man. The colonel has already promoted him to the rank of sergeant, since he kills better than most. Silent, quick, impassive, just as he learned from his father. His own men fear him; they follow his commands and lower their heads when he passes by, and they admire him when he stands at the front, shoulder to shoulder with them, and engages the enemy.

And yet, when the battle is over, he stays on the smoking field among the twisted, bloody bodies and he cries.

There is a reaper, Death’s his name…

Jakob left Schongau to escape the bloody work of an executioner. To refuse his inheritance, to escape his father’s fate.

But God put Jakob back in his place.

A sound outside his cell roused the hangman from his reveries. He’d lost all sense of time, but the chirping birds told him it was morning now. The cell door had fallen slightly ajar, and the outline of a man appeared there. In the light of a flickering torch on the wall behind him, the figure’s shadow grew to superhuman size until it seemed to fill the entire room.

Kuisl knew who was standing before him before the man had uttered even a single word.

6

REGENSBURG

EARLY ON THE MORNING OF AUGUST 20, 1662 AD

The prostitute Katharina lay on the floor of her dark chamber, trying to deflect the hairy hand that crawled over her face like a spider. She felt it clearly, but each time she opened her eyes, she could see nothing but her own hand, which she then held up close to her face, wiggling her fingers until they turned, before her eyes, into black insect legs covered with fine hairs. Katharina screamed and pounded her forehead with her fist again and again.

“Go away; why won’t you just leave me alone?”

But the spidery legs crept down her neck and over her breasts, where they lingered.

The creak of hinges stirred her from her hallucination. The hatch in the door slid open, and a tray of bread,