He was a tall man, Carl noted. Tall, and heavily built with it, the sort who
might give a good account of himself. So be it. All the better in fact. Carl
Durer enjoyed a decent scrap, so long as the odds were good. In any case—he glanced round at his comrades
again—more than one of these scum were dispensable now.
Any man out on the trail in these parts had to be heading from somewhere, to
somewhere. And they had to be carrying something too: money, silver, gold,
whatever. It would do. Carl met Lief’s wall-eyed stare and grinned. He could
almost smell the blood.
How to deal with Durer’s gang was a problem that had been playing on Lothar’s
mind for most of the day. There had been no chance of taking him on his own. It
had taken Lothar long enough to pick up the bandits’ trail after Talabheim, and
since then it seemed Durer was rarely if ever alone. Lothar would have to wait
for his opportunity, then make the most of it.
He had slipped quietly and unobtrusively into the gang’s wake just outside
Baumdorf. He had weighed his chances of taking Durer—dead or alive—with
three other armed men in tow, and decided that his best chance was to wait,
staying just in touch, until they struck camp. An hour, two hours passed in
stealthy pursuit. The sun had drawn down its light below the distant mountains,
and still Durer and his men gave no sign of breaking their journey. The bounty
hunter had grown anxious. If the bandit gang were to reach the forest under
cover of nightfall it would be all too easy to lose them forever.
Then he had seen the fifth rider, the single horseman, bearing south-west at
the same, unvarying pace, with Durer and his savage disciples slowly closing in.
Then he knew that the bandits would not head into the forest. They would chase
this unwitting rider down into the Ostravska Gorge, rob him and murder him. And
whilst Durer’s gang were busy with their butchery, Lothar would have the element
of surprise on his side. If he was lucky, the traveller might manage to wound or
kill some of Durer’s men before he himself was killed. At worst, the gang would
be distracted for a few precious moments. It might be the only chance he would
get.
It had taken him only a moment to make his decision. He would ride ahead, to
the far end of the gorge, then double back on them from the south. The strategy
wasn’t without risk. But then, he had told himself, everyone had to die
sometime.
The lone horseman pressed on into the valley, shadowed by his four pursuers.
Keep going, Carl thought, with quiet satisfaction. Soon we’ll have you exactly
where we want you. He looked around, taking in the physical dimensions of the
valley. To his left and right, towering walls of rock. Ahead, the path snaked
through the valley before exiting in a steep, winding climb that would take an
agile rider at least half an hour to navigate. No way out of here in a hurry.
Like a cork into a bottle. We’ve got you trapped now, my friend.
Carl Durer started to relax, settling into an old and comfortable routine. No
harm now in making sure their quarry knew they were here. He slackened off the
pace and bellowed out a command: “Hey, you up there. Turn about!”
The words echoed off the facing cliffs, filling the valley. But the horseman
made no acknowledgement of the summons, nor varied the steady pace of his horse
by as much as a step. If he was aware at all of the riders closing in on him,
then he remained completely indifferent to his fate. A surge of anger welled up
inside Carl Durer. The horseman—trader in trinkets, courier or whatsoever he
was—would pay dearly for his insolence. Any lingering thought in Carl Durer’s
mind that he might allow the man a mercifully quick death was now forgotten. No,
he’d let the boys play a while with this one, practise their carving skills. It
was remarkable how much pain you could inflict and still keep a man alive.
Durer looked left and right, and signalled to his men, initiating a familiar
manoeuvre. The Wahl brothers spurred their horses on, leaving Lief at Durer’s
side. The two riders steered out left and right, moving to overtake the horseman
on either side. Carl watched them speed past their target, the blades of their
swords glinting in the moonlight. If their victim had been oblivious to his fate
before, he wouldn’t be now. And yet, still the solitary figure did not deviate
from his path through the valley. The same, steady pace. The same, unswerving
direction. Well, let him enjoy his little game, Carl thought. Soon enough, we’ll
be enjoying ours.
Fifty yards on, the two bandits pulled up, dragging their horses around in a
cloud of dust and stones. Now they faced the oncoming rider, blocking off any
escape from the valley. Carl Durer looked on with satisfaction as, finally, the
horseman checked his speed and came to a gradual halt.
Durer slowed his own horse to a gentle trot until he was within hailing
distance of his men.
“Mark him all you want, boys. But keep him alive for me. I want some time
with this one.”
Still the rider sat, immobile on his towering steed, gaze fixed ahead as if
only seeing the path that led out of the valley.
“Turn about,” Carl commanded. “Turn around so I can take a look at you.” After
what seemed a long time the horseman finally turned, slow and ponderous, until
he was facing Durer.
The rider was half in shadow, but Carl Durer caught a glimpse of a
weather-beaten face framed by a shock of unkempt, jet-back hair. A pair of eyes
the colour of night itself stared directly through him without any
acknowledgement of his existence. For the briefest of moments he looked like a
statue carved out of living stone, rather than a mortal man. In the same moment
a thought raced, unbidden, through Carl Durer’s mind:
This is a mistake.
Absurd. Imagining things. Carl swept the thought aside and tugged his sword
out from its harness. The other man, he noted, had made no attempt to draw his
own sword yet. Maybe he knows it’s hopeless, Durer reckoned. Or maybe he’s one
of the ones who think they can talk their way out. Well, let him talk. They’d
have him singing before they’d finished with him, but all the pretty tunes known
to the gods weren’t going to save him now.
Durer nudged his horse forward so he could get a better look at their prize.
He was big all right—thickly muscled and stockily built, but that was of no
concern whilst they were four to one. Carl sliced the air with his sword a
matter of inches from the other man’s face. The rider didn’t flinch, but kept his
dark eyes fastened on Durer. There was no hatred there, but no fear either. He
was looking through him, not at him, Carl realised. As if he didn’t exist at
all.
Maybe the man had gone mad, wandering the plains of the Ostermark for days or
weeks on his own? Well, he had some company now, and they’d see if they couldn’t
waken him up a little. He reached for the flask inside his tunic and drained its
contents into his mouth, swallowing them down in one gulp. It was the last of
the rotgut brandy, the last of their provisions. But it was enough to get the
blood-fires boiling inside him, and not so much as to dull the killing edge. He
tossed the empty flask away, the battered pewter clattering on the hard flint
ground.
“Give us your money,” Durer demanded. He could sense the other men around him
growing impatient, eager to get on with their handiwork. “Give us your money,
and we’ll let you be on your way,” he lied. The other man looked around him,
slowly, seeming to take in Durer and his three henchmen for the first time.
“No money.” The voice was cold and toneless, void of emotion. By now Durer
had decided their quarry certainly was mad, and the realisation disappointed him
a little. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be fun after all. The night was cold and
his belly was griping incessantly. Perhaps they should just kill the idiot and
be done with it, then strip the body of whatever they could find. Carl Durer was
already starting to tire of his evening’s sport. A ride to the nearest village—even
a scumhole like Mielstadt, with its sour beer and its pox-ridden bawd-house—was
beginning to sound a better prospect than this.
The tall rider turned away and took up the reins, making ready to ride on,
oblivious to the men blocking his path. As he moved, the sleeve of his tunic
slid up to reveal his arm. At that instant Carl Durer registered something odd
about the arm—the flesh extensively bruised or stained—but it was not the
flesh that caught his eye. Fixed upon the man’s wrist was a band of gold metal,
the like of which Carl Durer had never seen before. He glimpsed it only
momentarily, glittering under the moonlight, but for that moment it shone with a depth and
lustre that told Carl he must possess it at all costs. Even if the madman was
travelling without so much as a copper penny in his pockets, this would surely
be an ample reward for their night’s work. Carl Durer fixed the other man with a
leering, crack-toothed grin.
“We’ll start with that little trinket there,” he said. “Give it over.”
The rider raised his arm a fraction, as though examining the golden band by
the light of the two moons. “Go on,” Durer continued, warming to his theme.
“Slip it off nice and slow and maybe we’ll go easy on you.” Perhaps there was
some fun to be had in this after all.
There followed a moment of absolute stillness. The rider sitting as if frozen
in the saddle, eyes fixed upon an indeterminate point in the far distance.
Behind him, the barrel-shaped bulk of Erich Wahl and his sadistic brother,
waiting for the command that would let the slaughter begin. In front of him,
Carl Durer, the bandit king with the blood of more than fifty on his hands. And
Lief, the scrawny man-boy, polishing the face of his axe upon his breeches. When
they’d done, Carl decided, he’d let Lief skin him alive if he fancied it.
Without warning, the rider suddenly brought his horse about and rode off,
resuming his journey, apparently without a thought to the men barring his way.
Carl spat a curse.
“A plague on the gods!” he yelled. “We’re finished with this fooling. Cut his
arm off, then bring me that gold bangle.”
Erich Wahl drew his sword with evident relish and moved to block the path of
the oncoming rider.
Carl Durer would not have believed what happened next, had he not witnessed
it with his own eyes. The fat man hefted his blade and swung it in a swift arc
towards the exposed right arm of the rider. As the blow fell, the other man drew
out his own sword with his left arm. It was not the speed of the answering blow
that dismayed Carl Durer so much as its unimaginable force. Force enough to
knock the blade clean out of Erich’s meaty grip and then keep moving, slicing
the night air in an unstoppable trajectory.
There was no howl of pain, nor bellowing of wounded rage from the fat man.
Only the dull thud of an object hitting the ground, then a second, far heavier
crash, as the severed head fell to earth, followed a moment later by the rest of
Erich’s body.
Carl Durer stared in paralysed disbelief at the bloody carnage seemingly
wrought out of thin air before his eyes. But Kurt Wahl was not so dumbstruck.
Screaming murderous vengeance, he charged full tilt towards the man who had
killed his brother. The stranger kept his sword hanging down by his side,
resting against the horse’s flank. There was no attempt to defend himself
against the assault. He waited passively whilst Kurt bore down upon him, the
flailing hooves of his horse raking clouds of ochre dust from the valley floor.
The stranger still hadn’t moved when Kurt cut across his path and lashed out,
delivering a sweeping blow with a sword heavy enough to cut through armour. The
stranger nudged his mount to one side with a delicacy that belied the bulk of
both horse and rider, dancing away from the blow. The sword-stroke sliced
uselessly through thin air as Kurt Wahl shot past.
Carl Durer glanced across at the youth sitting by his side. Lief’s bloodless
face was as it ever was, as bereft of emotion as his tongue was of words. But he
could read the way the battle was running as well as his master, and when Carl
Durer nodded he pushed his horse forward, moving in a slow circle around the
combatants like a snake closing upon its prey.
Twice more Kurt surged forward towards the traveller, seized by an
unquenchable rage, desperate to avenge the blood of his kin. Both times the
result was the same, the tall stranger holding his ground, drawing the attack to
him, before pulling out of range of his enemy’s blade at the last possible
moment.
Playing with him, Carl realised. Toying with the fiercest and most dangerous
of his men. This was not how it had been meant to be. On the third pass, the
playing came to an end. This time Kurt correctly anticipated the manoeuvre. This
time his blow was on target, the sword scything down towards the other’s unprotected face. The stranger raised his sword, and met
the blow, effortlessly. Steel bit upon steel. The stranger lifted his blade
higher, twisting Wahl’s arm, lifting the bandit clear out of the saddle and
tossing him onto the ground.
Things moved quickly now. Before the stranger could turn his horse about to
finish off Kurt, Lief took his chance, leaping from his own horse to fasten like
a limpet upon the man’s back. Lief’s bird-claw nails closed around his enemy’s
neck, closing off his windpipe and scouring the flesh from his throat. From the
ground, Kurt saw what was happening and climbed briskly to his feet, encouraged
that the tide of the battle was now turning. His optimism was rewarded with a
blade that traced a perfect line from his breastbone to the line of his scalp,
spitting him then paring him open like a ripe fruit. His blood mixed with his
brother’s, draining into the dry earth.
The pale boy now redoubled his efforts, trying to choke his opponent with his
left arm, freeing the right to lift the axe free of his belt. Sensing the blade
about to fall, the stranger twisted to shake him off, and, in the struggle that
followed, both fell from the saddle on to the ground below.