The War Hound and the World's Pain (11 page)

On the outskirts of the town I passed a house which had a crowd surrounding it. Men, women and children stood packed together, watching wide-eyed as a group of people in black began to emerge from the house. The women were wailing and the boys and girls were pale and stunned. They were carrying three corpses from the house.

I wondered if this had anything to do with the pair I had encountered on the previous day.

I asked one fat townsman what had happened.

“It’s the Jews,” he said. “All the men were struck down in the night by the Sword of God. It is His vengeance upon them for their crimes.”

I was disgusted. Their fate was familiar enough, but I had not expected to witness such an event in the pleasant town of Teufenberg.

I did not wait to hear the catalogue of crimes, for it would be the same wretched list one heard from the Baltic to the Black Sea.

Grimly, I spurred my horse and was more than glad when I reached the highway. The air seemed purer. I galloped a few miles until Teufenberg was completely out of sight, then I let my horse walk for a while.

In one sense I was grateful for what I had seen that morning in Teufenberg. I had been reminded of the realities of the world which lay ahead of me.

THE WEATHER GREW warmer and warmer as the miles between Teufenberg and Schweinfurt narrowed. It was almost like summer and I was tempted, against my ordinary caution, to divest myself of some of my armour. But I kept it on, pouring a dram of water into my shirt occasionally to cool me. The roads were fairly good, there having been little rain in recent days and few armies to churn them up, and I was lucky in that, every night, I found reasonably pleasant accommodation. Signs of the War began to increase, however. I passed the occasional gallows and more frequently came upon burnt-out ruins of farmsteads and churches.

I had reached a mountainous region, of pines and gtittering limestone, one day and was emerging from a small gorge, when I saw before me a broad meadow in which, quite recently, some gory fight had taken place. There were bodies strewn everywhere, most of them stripped or at least partially shorn of their best clothing. Crows and ravens flapped and hopped, squabbling over the red, stinking flesh of the slain. There was absolutely no means of telling the loyalties of the combatants, and there was little point in trying to find out. It would probably emerge, as always, that their motives for fighting had been confused, to say the least.

Normally I should have skirted the battlefield, but my path took me directly through it and there were boulders on either side of the meadow. I was forced to let my horse pick his way between the corpses, while flies rose in clouds to attack me, presumably finding something more attractive about warm blood than cold.

I was halfway across the meadow, holding a cloth to my nostrils to try to block out the sickening smell of death, when I heard a noise from the rocks on my right and, looking up, saw a small boulder come tumbling down towards me. I detected a flash, as of metal, a hint of blue cloth, and immediately my old instincts came to my service.

The reins were wound around my pommel and both pistols were in my gloved hands. I cocked them carefully just as the men began to reveal themselves. They were all on foot, dressed in a motley of armour, carrying a variety of weaponry, from rusty axes and pikes, to glittering Toledo swords and daggers. The ruffians belonged to no particular army, that was certain. They were old-fashioned brigands, with sweating red faces, unshaven chins, and all manner of minor diseases written on their skins.

I leveled my pistols as they began to scramble down the hillside towards me.

“Stand back,” I cried, “or I shall discharge!”

Their leader, almost a dwarf, wearing a stained black cloak and hat and a torn linen shirt, produced one of the largest pistols I had ever seen and grinned at me. Most of his teeth were missing. He squinted along the gun and said in a wheedling voice:

“Fire away, Your Honour. And we’ll have the pleasure of doing the same.”

I shot him in the chest. With a groan he flung up his arms and fell backwards, twitching for a second or two before he died. His pistol slithered towards his feet and none of his men were prepared to pick it up.

I reholstered the pistol I had used and drew my sword. “You’ll not find me easy game, my friends,” I said. “I would advise you that the cost of robbing me will prove far too dear.”

One of the ruffians at the back raised a crossbow and loosed his bolt. The thing went just past my shoulder and I betrayed no sign that I had noticed it. My horse, well-trained, held his ground as well as did I.

“No more of that,” said I, “or this other pistol will do its work. You have seen that I am a good shot.”

I noted an arquebus lowered and a musket lifted from its aiming rod.

A creature with a squint and a Prussian accent said: “We are hungry, Your Worship. We have not eaten for days. We are honest soldiers, all of us, forced to live off the land when our officer deserted us.”

I smiled. “I would hesitate to guess who had deserted whom. I have no food to spare. If you wish to eat, why don’t you seek out an army and attach yourselves to it?”

Another began: “For the love of God …”

“I do not love God and neither does He love me,” I said, with some certainty. “You cannot beg charity from a man you had hoped to murder.”

They were creeping closer. I raised my pistol as a warning. They stopped, but then one of them, from the middle, brought up a pistol and fired it. The ball grazed the neck of my horse and he jumped, losing his composure for a moment. I fired back and missed my man, wounding another behind him.

Then they were upon me.

I had left it too late to run from them. They had quickly surrounded me, clutching at the horse’s bridle, feinting at me with their pikes. I defended myself with my sword, loosening one foot from its stirrup to kick and shoving my pistol back into its holster so that I could tug a long poignard from its sheath at my belt. I took the lives of three and wounded several more, but they had lost their fear of me now and I knew that I must soon be borne under.

I received two small wounds, one in my thigh and one in my forearm, but they did not stop me from using either the leg or the arm. The brigands had begun to try to bring down the horse—a desperate action since he was probably the most valuable thing I owned—when I heard the sound of more hooves behind me and a wild, terrible yell cut through the general din. Some of the thieves detached themselves from me to deal with this new antagonist.

I recognized him at once. It was the young Muscovite from the inn. His sabre swirled this way and that as he rode low on his pony, slicing living flesh as a surgeon might dissect corpses. And he continued with his bloodcurdling yells until all the thieves were on the run. Then he flung back his head, dragged off his sheepskin cap and laughed, hurling insults after those few robbers left alive.

It was only then that I saw another rider some distance behind us. He was positioned at the mouth of the gorge, sitting almost motionless upon his chestnut cob and looking at both Grigory Sedenko and myself with pursed lips and a disapproving eye.

Sedenko wheeled his pony, still laughing. “That was good fighting,” he said to me.

“I am grateful to you,” I said.

He shrugged. “This journey was becoming boring. I was only too glad to relieve the boredom.”

“You risked your life for a fool and an agnostic,” said Klosterheim, pushing his wide-brimmed hat back from his face. “I am disappointed in you, Sedenko.”

“He’s a fellow soldier, which is more than you are, Klosterheim, for all your protestations.”

I was pleased that the youth had grown impatient with the soldier-priest. But then I recalled the Jews at Teufenberg and I looked with a slightly wary eye upon the Muscovite, for I was almost convinced that he had slain the three Jews in their sleep.

Klosterheim’s lips twisted in distaste. “You should have let him die,” he told Sedenko. “You disobeyed me.”

“And would again in similar circumstances,” said the boy. “I am tired of your sermons and your quiet deaths, brother priest. If I’m to continue on to Schweinfurt, let this gentleman accompany us, for my sake if not for his.”

Klosterheim shook his head. “This man is cursed. Can you not see it written on him?”

“I can only see a healthy soldier, like myself.”

Klosterheim spurred his horse forward. His hatred of me seemed entirely reasonless. He rode on past me, through that meadow of fresh and not-so-fresh corpses.

“I’ll travel alone,” he said. “You have lost my friendship, Sedenko. And my gold.”

“And good riddance to both,” cried the red-haired youth. Then, turning to me: “Where do you journey, sir, and would you tolerate my company?”

I smiled. The boy had charm. “I go to Schweinfurt and beyond. I’ll happily ride with such an excellent swordsman. What’s your destination?”

“I have none in mind. Schweinfurt’s as good as any.” He spat after the retreating Klosterheim. “That man is mad,” he said.

I looked to my wounds. They were not serious. A little balm was smeared on each. Soon we were riding along together, side by side.

“How were you employed by Klosterheim?” I asked casually. “As a bodyguard?”

“Partly. But he knows that I have no love for Jews, Turks or any other form of infidel. Originally he wanted me to help him in the execution of some Jews in Teufenberg. He said he had evidence of their having sacrificed Christian babies. Well, everyone knows that Jews do that and they must be punished. I was quite prepared to help him.”

I said nothing to this. The fierceness with which the southern Muscovite hated his Oriental, Mussulman neighbours was well-known. The boy seemed no worse than most in this.

“You killed those Jews?” I asked.

He scoffed. “Of course I did not. One was too old and the others were too young. But the main reason was that Klosterheim had deceived me. There was no evidence at all that they had done what he said.”

“And yet they were killed.”

“Naturally. I told Klosterheim to do his own work. In the end that is what he did, though reluctantly. Then he told me that there were more infidels to kill and that I would be well-paid for my trouble. Gradually I began to realize that it was murder, not fighting, he wanted me to perform. And whatever else I am, sir, I am not a murderer. I kill cleanly, in fair fighting. Or, at least, I make sure the odds are fair, in the matter of Jews and Turks. I have never struck one of them from behind.”

He seemed proud of this last fact. I laughed tolerantly enough and told him that I had known a few decent Jews in my time and at least one noble Turk. He politely ignored this remark which, I am sure, he judged to be in extremely poor taste.

Sedenko’s company had the effect of shortening the journey to Schweinfurt. Every so often, along the road, we saw ahead of us the purple plume and the black garb of Klosterheim, but he was travelling at speed now and was soon it least a day ahead of us. Sedenko’s story was familiar enough:

He was a son of those hardy pioneers, the Kazaks, who had expanded Muscovite territory against the Tatars (thus his traditional hatred of Orientals) and had grown up in a village near the southern capital of Kieff. His people were famous riders and swordsmen and he had, according to his own boasts, excelled in every Kazak skill until he had become embroiled in a feud between rival clans over whether or not to rise against the Poles, and had killed a chief (or hetman). For this crime he had been banished, so had decided to strike westward and enlist in the army of some Balkan prince. For a while he had served with a Carpathian king in a war which, as far as I could tell, was no more than a quarrel between two gangs of robber-knights. Being of a fanatically religious bent, like most of his kind, he had heard of a “Holy War” in Germany and had decided that this was more to his taste. He had been disappointed to discover that he could find no particular sympathy with either side, for his religion recognized a Patriarch in Constantinople, not a Pope, yet in other respects was even more elaborate in its forms of worship than the Roman faith.

“I had thought I would be fighting infidels,” he said in a disappointed voice, “Tatars, Jews or Turks. But this is a squabble between Christians and they do not appear to know the essentials of their arguments. They are all faithless fools, in my opinion. I decided I could fight for none of them. I enlisted as a personal bodyguard with a couple of noblemen, but they found me too wild, I think, for their taste, and I was close to starvation when I met Klosterheim.”

“Where did you meet him first?”

“Where you saw us. I had had word through a third party—a monk in Allerheim—that this soldier-priest had employment for a defender of Christ’s people. Well, I decided to see what it was, particularly since I had received a silver florin in advance. That was what paid my way to Teufenberg. Now we all know that a good Christian is worth twenty Jews, in any circumstance, and that twenty-to-one constitutes fair odds if one is attacking a village. I had expected a shtetl-full, at least. I had the impression that it was a veritable army threatening Teufenberg. But three! The only male Jews in the whole town! I felt insulted, sir, I can tell you. I have rarely tolerated such condescending behaviour as that which I tolerated in Klosterheim. Everyone is an infidel to him. He sought to convert me from the religion of my fathers to his own grey faith!”

I found his open naivete, his unjustified and somewhat innocent prejudices, his enthusiasm, at once disarming and amusing. His prattle took little of my attention, but it served to keep my brain from morbidly dwelling on my own problems.

Scnweinfurt was soon reached: a moderate-sized city which bore the usual traces of the War. Our presence was unremarked and I asked directions for the best road to Nürnberg. Sedenko and I put up at an inn on the outskirts of Schweinfurt and the following morning I prepared to say farewell to him, but he grinned at me and said: “If you’ve no objection, Captain von Bek, I’ll stick with you for a while. I’ve nothing better to do and you have the air of someone who has embarked upon an adventure. You’ve said little of yourself or your mission, and I respect your silence. But I enjoy the comradeship of a fellow swordsman and, who knows, something might happen to me in your company which will lead to my finding decent employment with a company of professional soldiers,”