Death and the Devil

“Run, for God’s sake,” Kuno shouted, rolling over to one side as Daniel’s sword came crashing down on the stones in a shower of sparks. The next moment he had his dagger in his hand.

“Bastard!” panted Daniel.

She couldn’t just run away. There seemed to be a thousand knives pricking at her as she hurried over to the pillar and grabbed one of the poles. It was heavy and splintery.

Kuno was defending himself desperately. He got back to his feet, warding off Daniel’s blows with his dagger. The blood was running down his thigh.

An angry hissing came from Daniel’s throat. He fell on his opponent again. The storeroom echoed with the clash of iron and Kuno’s dagger flew out of his hand in a high arc. Daniel laughed and plunged his sword in Kuno’s side. When he pulled it out, it was red with blood.

Kuno stared at him in disbelief. Then he fell to his knees.

“Farewell, Kuno dear,” Daniel panted, his sword uplifted for the final blow.

“Daniel!” Richmodis shouted, raising her improvised club.

Daniel turned and understood—too late. The club came swinging down and smashed into his face, the impact sending him flying over Kuno. He landed on his back with a thud and the sword fell out of his hand.

Richmodis dropped the pole, grabbed the sword, and raised it above her head.

“No!” Kuno groaned. “Don’t!”

He was holding one hand to his side. The other was stretched out toward Richmodis. “No. We must—get away. Leave him—”

Breathing heavily, the sword still raised, Richmodis stood over Daniel, who was covering his face with his hands and whimpering.

“Yes,” she said hoarsely.

“You’ll have to—support me. Give—give me the sword.” Kuno was deathly pale. Richmodis tried to pull him up. He pushed himself off the ground and managed to get his arm around her shoulders.

“Where’s your house?”

He shook his head. “We can’t go there. Not now. If Urquhart finds out—”

“Don’t talk,” said Richmodis grimly. “Try to keep going for a while.”

She grasped him firmly and together they staggered out into the storm.

GODDERT

Goddert pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and walked as fast as his short legs would carry him. He had nothing against rain, but this was too much of a good thing. Was the time at hand? The apocalypse?

For a brief moment he thought he could see the night watchman’s lantern in the distance by St. Severin’s Gate; then another squall came, blurring everything.

“Urgghhh,” said Goddert, giving precise expression to his opinion of the meteorological situation as he shook himself and knocked on Jaspar’s door. “What are you up to in there? I need a drink.”

No answer. That really was the limit. His late wife’s brother was not inviting him in. He gave the door a vindictive thump. It swung open.

Goddert peered in. It was pitch dark in here as well, just a faint glow from the ashes in the fireplace. Where the hell were they all? And why hadn’t he brought a lantern? Just like an old fool.

He felt his way in and tried to think where Jaspar kept his candles. Since he was here, he might as well have a drink. Someone who had been out in this awful weather twice now could hardly be expected to go home unfortified. Jaspar surely wouldn’t object to him having one for the road, however much he kept saying he preferred to be asked.

Throwing his wet cloak into a corner, he felt his way along the table to the bench by the fire. He needed to sit down. By this time his eyes had become more used to the darkness. Was that a candlestick on the table? He grasped it, carried it over to the fireplace, and tried to light the wick from the embers. After a couple of attempts, he succeeded. Pleased with himself, he took the candlestick back to the table to leave it there while he went to look for something to drink.

He saw Rolof.

He froze.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” he whispered.

He began to tremble uncontrollably. The candlestick fell to the floor and the candle went out. Stumbling, he backed toward the door. “Richmodis,” he moaned, “Jaspar, Rolof. Oh, God, what shall I do, oh, Lord, what—”

A heavy hand was placed on his shoulder. “Nothing,” said a voice.

THE WAREHOUSE

Daniel was crawling nowhere on all fours. Every direction was the same. There was a flicker of light in front of his eyes, but the light came from inside his head. Otherwise he couldn’t see anything at all.

He felt his face. His nose and forehead hurt horribly. His fingers touched something wet and sticky. A terrible thought came into his head.

The whore had knocked his eyes out.