The Raftmaster’s attack was so sudden that Kuisl didn’t turn aside until the last moment. The sun was shining straight into his eyes, forcing him to squint and rely on instinct alone. As Kuisl dodged to the left, he felt the katzbalger whiz by just inches from his face. At his feet lay Teuber, the bolt through his chest, his shirt soaked in blood, staring glassy-eyed at the two combatants.
Kuisl reached for the old, beat-up rapier on his belt. From the corner of his eye he could see Lettner preparing for another attack. The hangman unsheathed his weapon just as the raftmaster came at him from the left, where Kuisl was exposed. The rapier and the katzbalger met with a loud clatter in the air, and the battle raged back and forth.
Kuisl could feel sweat streaming down his back, fever pulsing through his body, and his left arm hanging down like a dead tree branch. Had he been in better condition, he might have been a match for Philipp Lettner. Kuisl had always been the stronger of the two, but his former second in command was known to compensate for this deficiency with excessive cruelty. Now, weakened from torture, however, the hangman was hopelessly outmatched. The last twenty-five years hadn’t softened or fattened Philipp but had made him as sinewy and hard as a polished walnut. To make matters worse, his brother was still lingering up in the steeple, his eyes flashing down on the two opponents. His crossbow lay in arm’s reach on the windowsill, and Kuisl assumed the enormous man could load it again in no time.
“Does my brother frighten you?” Philipp Lettner bared his white teeth. Relentlessly he forced Kuisl toward the church with his katzbalger. “Don’t forget, Friedrich is a monster of your own creation. You thought he’d burned to death back then in that farmhouse, didn’t you? But my brother is strong-strong and tough, just like all Lettners. He fought his way out of the smoking ruins and pulled me down from the tree, after your hasty departure, that is. But for Karl, our youngest, help came too late.
Kuisl didn’t notice Lettner draw a dagger from his belt and prepare to strike the hangman’s stomach. Only at the last moment did Kuisl knock the blade aside with his left arm, causing severe pain to return to his shoulder. When Kuisl’s vision went black, he had to kick blindly at his opponent, striking him in the stomach. Moaning, Lettner staggered backward, stumbling over the crumbling ruin of a farmhouse wall.
Without pausing, the hangman took advantage of the unexpected reprieve and ran toward the ruined church. If he was to stand any chance at all against the mercenary, it would be with a surprise attack. Perhaps there was a hiding place in the church ruins, somewhere he could seek cover.
The ruins were enveloped in a muted light that filtered through partially collapsed roof beams, where swallows and pigeons had come to nest. Ivy wound like a venomous snake around what remained of the nave’s left aisle. The right wing was in better shape; a charred, life-size wooden cross still hung on the wall there. But there, too, the church windows were like lifeless black eyes, overgrown with blackberry bushes that allowed only a glimmer of light to penetrate. Moldy leaves fluttered down from the ceiling, and Kuisl could hear bees buzzing about somewhere.
Toward the front Kuisl discovered a stone altar that, absent its altar cloth, Eucharist monstrance, and gilded finery, looked like the sacrificial stage for some pagan rite. The hangman ran and crouched behind it to catch his breath, his back tucked against the side facing away from the pews.
Soon Kuisl heard footsteps, though he didn’t realize at first that they came not from the entrance but from the church spire. Pressed tight against the altar’s edge, he peered into the right aisle, toward the crumbling door of the steeple ruins, just as an enormous figure emerged from behind a pile of moss-covered rocks.
It was Friedrich Lettner.
The man aimed his loaded crossbow straight at the altar. Kuisl ducked as a bolt whizzed within millimeters of his nose, boring into the wall next to him and sending shards of stone flying in all directions.
“You know something, Kuisl? My brother shouldn’t get to have all the fun for himself, now should he?” Friedrich’s deep voice echoed through the ruined church. “I’ll nail you to the cross with these bolts, then burn the eyes out of your head. Too bad the Regensburg executioner won’t be able to watch. I’ll bet he’s never seen a torture technique like that.” Kuisl heard a soft creak-one he’d heard many times before-the sound of the crossbow crank as Friedrich Lettner loaded a new bolt.
“How long I’ve waited for this moment, Kuisl!” Friedrich said as he casually turned the crank. “Philipp didn’t think I should take the raft back to Regensburg with you; he thought you might recognize me. But someone had to deliver the letter, after all. And besides…” His laughter was harsh, almost a rattle, as if the flames from that farmhouse long ago had scarred his throat as well. “The way I look, my own mother wouldn’t even recognize me.”
“Shut your mouth, Friedrich! You talk too much!” It was the voice of Philipp Lettner, who had entered the church in the meanwhile. He held his hand to his hip, and his face was contorted with pain; he’d apparently injured himself falling over the wall outside. “Load your crossbow. The dog may be cornered, but he’s still dangerous.”
Grumbling something incomprehensible, Friedrich began to crank the crossbow again.
As another wave of fever washed over him, Kuisl considered his options here behind the altar. He’d run straight into their trap! Once Friedrich’s bow was readied-no more than a few moments from now-Philipp would flush him out from behind the altar like a rat. The hangman had no doubt the bolt would hit its mark this time. Friedrich made quite clear with his first shot that he hadn’t forgotten how to wield a crossbow. Kuisl bit his lip; the fever had made him very agitated. He had little time before his fate would be sealed, by either the crossbow or the katzbalger.
Again he risked a glance from behind the altar. Philipp Lettner waited at the church door with sword raised. Friedrich, still cranking his crossbow, would be ready in a matter of moments. Kuisl studied Friedrich’s face, ravaged by fire, a face he last saw on the trip to Regensburg. The skin had congealed into a hard mass like the burned, cracked bark of an oak, but the eyes behind it remained the same-cold, blue, evil. All around Friedrich wasps were buzzing, evidently disturbed by the commotion in the ruin. They were exceptionally large, black and yellow, and their wings shimmered in the midday sun.
Only now did Kuisl realize these weren’t wasps at all but mean-looking hornets, each grown to nearly the length of a man’s finger. They buzzed about Friedrich’s scabby nose, and again and again the mercenary had to interrupt his cranking to swat them away. Where were they all coming from?
Kuisl’s gaze wandered along the wall, over the ivy- and moss-covered stones, until he spotted the nest. It hung from the ceiling, hidden among charred beams and blackberry bushes.
Directly above Friedrich.
“Goddamn it, how long is that going to take?” Philipp Lettner said angrily. “Can’t you see we’ve got him holed up behind the altar like a wounded boar? We’ve got to drive him out of there together.”
“Just one second,” Friedrich replied. “The bowstring is so taut the bolt could pass straight through three men like a knife through butter. I just have to-”
He didn’t finish his sentence. Like an avenging angel, Kuisl rose up behind the altar and hurled a fist-size rock at the hornets’ nest. The stone made a direct hit, and the nest swayed and finally fell to the ground at Friedrich’s feet, where it burst open like a full wine pouch.
Hundreds of furious hornets swarmed out and enveloped Friedrich Lettner in a dark, tremulous lethal cloud. With a shout he dropped the crossbow and raised his hands to cover his face, but the hornets were already busily exploring his scars.
The seething black-and-yellow mass stung the man’s face over and over.
Simon heard the fuse crackle as it burned inexorably toward the entrance to the mill. Through a crack in the door he thought he could see the gleam of gunpowder about to ignite. Having reached the door, the spark traveled now along the fuse toward the pile of flour, wood shavings, and small boards Silvio had positioned at the end of the cord.
In desperation the medicus thrashed about, but his bonds wouldn’t give a fraction of an inch. He tried to slither to the door, only to find the Venetian had also tethered him to a beam. The rope jerked him back, and he collapsed, exhausted. Flour drifted like a white fog among the remaining barrels, sacks, and crates, one of which- Simon was painfully aware-contained several pounds of gunpowder just waiting to explode.
“Help! Doesn’t anyone hear me?” he croaked hoarsely, though he knew it was pointless. The rumbling and pounding of the Wohrd mill wheels would drown out even the loudest shout. Though the huge grain mill still ground
