CHAPTER 16: What of The Night?

Watchman, what of the night?
Isaiah 21:11

“What intrigues me,” Father Völker said in the Italian that was the preferred language at the keep, “is the Erl King’s sudden burst of activity.” He cradled a cup of mulled wine in his hands, warming them as he stood in the kitchen. “Why this winter in particular?”

“This is unusual, then?” Basti asked, looking at Caterina. “You knew he was in the keep before…”

“Just the occasional glimpse,” Danti said roughly. “Never anything like this.” His eyes were shadowed and his face haggard. Everyone in the kitchen looked worn out from interrupted nights and constant strain. “Nobody cared that much; haunted castles are common enough.”

“Is the Erl King the only … spirit … haunting the keep?”

“No,” Danti said flatly.

“The Erl King did mention his daughters to me, before the church,” Araciel said, opening his eyes. With his shoulder bandaged and his lesser wounds tended, he’d insisted on joining the conversation, although for the most part he’d rested in his chair with eyes closed. Frau Bruhn, a heavyset, imposing woman, had taken up watch at Dietrich’s side, dosing him with her own medicines.

“Daughters?” Danti scowled, glancing at Naich, then Alrune. “I must have met one of them, then. She called herself a vailcray or something like that, and she had a raven on her shoulder and a lot of wolves around her feet.”

“A wælcyrge, Danti?”

“Yes, I think that was it.” Danti looked up. “What does it mean?”

“A chooser of the slain,” the priest replied, his eyes shadowed. “It’s an old term from the north. I read it in an old treatise called the Sermo Lupi.”

Danti’s gaze was fixed on Naich, who began polishing the silver bands of his instrument.

“What’s a chooser of the slain?”

“One of the ancient goddesses,” Alrune unexpectedly answered, sitting on his stool by the fireplace. “She chose sacrifices to the god of war, and she seized and devoured those who fell in battle.” His eyes danced as he met Father Völker’s gaze. “She was a servant of the god who was here before your own, Father, wasn’t she?”

The priest slowly nodded.

“A servant of Satan, at least….”

“The Erl King be no servant of either Satan or God,” Araciel said with certainty.

“What makes you think that?” the priest asked, looking up.

“Araciel told me a story once, about the sons and daughters of Eve,” Caterina said quickly, before Araciel could reply. “The ugly ones that she hid from God and became elves and goblins.”

“Tsk.” The elderly clergyman shook his head. “That’s an ancient folk tale. If you attended Church more often,” he gently chided Araciel, “you wouldn’t believe such fables.”

“E’en so,” Araciel said deferentially, glancing at Caterina. She had dropped her gaze again, huddled in a warm blanket.

“Well, if we don’t even know what he is, how are we supposed to fight him?” Danti asked abruptly.

“I know what he is. I’m the only priest in the mountains, and sometimes I have to travel far away to serve the remoter villages.” Father Völker looked up, his face somber. “The Erl King is a relatively new name for a very old god. Sometimes he has one hand, and sometimes he has two. Sometimes his worshippers bind themselves with cords and sometimes they hang their sacrifices with rope. Sometimes he’s just, and sometimes he’s cruel. But he’s always the storm god. A war god, a wolfmaster and a deathbringer.”

“What be his other names, then?” Araciel asked in the sudden hush, eyes fixed on the priest’s face.

Basti remembered Alrune saying that names had power, and wondered if it was true.

“I’ve heard him called Teiwa, or Tiwaz, by the woodsmen and foresters. When I baptize them, I ask them to renounce Teiwa and the Erl King, as well as Satan. Some of them hesitate a long time before they give their oath. Teiwa has been in these mountains for a long time.”

“Why would anyone worship so cruel a god?” Caterina asked softly.

“It be a cruel life here,” Araciel replied, “and to war and kill in the name of a god, that be always and ever the way of men who dare not admit they do evil of their own choice.”

Father Völker gave Araciel a long look, looking surprised by his reply.

“For some reason, Teiwa has decided to stop retreating into the hills,” the priest said after a second, gravely. “This winter something has brought him and his two priestesses, or daughters, or minions — whatever they are — back to Gestern. You know this was once the site of a terrible slaughter, don’t you?”

“The original Gesterns. Lord Gestern went mad and killed everyone here during the winter.” Basti nodded, remembering the old woman’s tale. “He said he was serving the Erl King. Teiwa, then.” The word sounded strange on his lips. Intimate. Like using a king’s real name, rather than his title.

“The god has been known to accept human sacrifice,” Father Völker nodded, voice grim. “This mountain was once the site where his worshippers gathered and sacrificed to him before this keep was built. There’s the ruin of a very old church in a valley on this mountain – I’m sure you’ve all seen it.”

Basi nodded, remembering Araciel showing it to him.

“It’s the Church’s tradition to build its houses of prayer over the old sites, to cleanse the places of their evil.”

“But that church is in ruins. What happened?” Danti asked.

“Nobody knows, or wants to admit they know,” Völker replied. “I have a guess, though. The wolfshield on the floor was the Gesern coat of arms. I think the villagers destroyed the church when they found out what had happened up here. They probably feared Gestern had been worshipping Teiwaz there.”

“And now you do believe the Erl King has come to reclaim his home, as he did try those generations past,” Araciel stated. The priest nodded.

“Yes, and not only by trying to drive you out. I’m afraid he’s begun to haunt Gestern, as well. A young village boy – Franz’ ten-year-old – vanished the day before yesterday, just after the first storm. We sent out searchers, but they had to cut the hunt short when it began to snow again.” The priest rubbed his eyes. “We assumed he’d gotten lost while playing and been caught in the storm. Or attacked by wolves. I’ve been at Franz’ house since the boy was discovered missing, trying to comfort his mother. She thinks her child is dead.” Völker tightened his lips. “But he vanished the same day Sebastiano and Caterina saw the Huntsman on the road, and we already know what the Erl King does to the children he steals away.”

“The boy,” Basti felt ill. “He was shopkeeper’s son?”

“That poor child,” Caterina whispered, looking up. “What can we do to save him?”

“I wish I knew. If we knew more about what the Erl King’s power over them was, we’d have more to work with.” Völker shook his head. “One child turned back into a boy and died when he touched holy ground. It could be that the wolf-children can’t be saved except in death.”

“Maybe they’re already dead,” Albrecht suggested sepulchrally, his first words since they’d gathered to plan. Basti shivered, remembering the wolf’s gleaming eyes as it had crouched on his chest, tearing through his clothes to reach his throat. Had its true form been that of a murdered child, some necromantic creation under the Erl King’s power? Had its attack been inspired by hunger for the heat of life in his own flesh and blood?

He hastily quashed that line of speculation, swallowing.

“That, too, is possible.” Father Völker lowered his eyes, examining his hands. “I’m afraid I’m only one clergyman in charge of a very small flock. In better weather I’d send for a more experienced priest. I don’t know much about sorcery and murder, and I’m no strategician to help you defend yourselves and your property. I don’t know why the Erl King has chosen this winter bring fear to your house.” He looked up again, his eyes filled with determination despite his age. “I’ll do what I can. But I dread to suggest you rely on me to save you.”

“Don’t worry,” Danti said grimly. “You take care of the spiritual end of things, and we’ll deal with the physical end.” He folded his arms over his chest, his sculptor’s muscles emphasized by the padding of his giaquetta’s sleeves. Basti was suddenly struck by the difference in his mentor; he seemed fiercer now, less talkative. More like the young hellion he’d described in his stories about Venezia. “How do you want to start?”

“Donna Caterina and young Sebastiano suggested I secure the outside doors and windows against the Erl King with the sign of the cross or holy water. I propose to begin doing that. In case it’s not enough to keep him at bay, however, I think several of you should arm yourselves.” The priest sighed. “But try to avoid killing the children, if you can. They’re innocent.”

“If we can,” Basti agreed doubtfully. The wolves that had hunted them through Gestern had been intent on blood. His shoulders still ached from the effort of keeping the wolf’s teeth from his neck, and the old wound in his arm throbbed with a dull pain.

“I think we should stay together tonight,” Albrecht added. “Nobody should walk through the keep alone.”

“Tonight?” Völker’s tone was mild. “The Hunter is quite as able of acting during the day as at night. From now on, nobody should be alone in or out of the keep.”

Nodding their assent, the seven stood, stretching and setting their cups aside.

“I’ll go with you, Father,” Albrecht volunteered. “I don’t trust anyone else to remember all the doors and windows in the keep.” He deftly gathered the cups and set them on a sideboard for cleaning later. “Someone would forget the windows in the stair towers, or the attic….”

“There are swords over the mantel in the parlor and in the laboratory,” Alrune said, sliding from his chair to the ground.

“Those in the laboratory be consecrated swords,” Araciel protested, looking up suddenly. “They be intended for ceremonial work only!”

“I shall destroy my enemy as ceremonially as possible,” Alrune replied with a mocking bow.

“Calm down, Araciel. Alrune’s right,” Danti said brusquely. “We need all the weapons we can get; this place doesn’t exactly have an armory.” He looked at Caterina. “Caterina? They’re yours.”

“Go ahead,” she said, not looking at Araciel. “Nobody needs to use them at the moment, anyway.”

“Does anyone here besides young Araciel know how to use a blade?” Father Völker asked.

“I fought a few duels when I was younger,” Danti admitted. “It’s been a long time, though.”

The priest nodded, then looked at the others.

“The rest of you,” he said, “should stick to a simpler weapon. Otherwise we’re likely to have people cutting their own feet off.”

“Or each other’s heads,” Alrune said with a contemptuous smile. He and Naich left, heading for the stairs.

“I wish I understood why he’s so angry,” Völker mused, gazing after him with a small frown before turning to the cook. After a brief discussion of where to begin, Albrecht and the elderly priest vanished in the opposite direction.

“Donna Caterina, I need to talk with you a moment,” Danti said. She nodded, as tired as he.

“Please, Danti,” she said in a near whisper. “Let’s not be formal, not now.”

The sculptor nodded, expression gentle, and looked up at the others. “The rest of you might as well hear this, too.

“Last night I saw Hubert Naich with that wælcyrge-woman, the one that serves the Erl King. He was playing music for her, and he drove her off when she tried to threaten me. When I asked him what was going on, he said she’d ‘chosen’ him; she’s the chooser of the slain, remember? After what the Father said, I don’t know exactly what that means — I don’t think he’s dead — but I don’t like it.” Danti scowled. “He knows a lot more than he’s telling us. Personally, I’d like to get the full story from him, or lock him in a room until all this is over. Alrune and I figured it’s your decision to make, Caterina.”

Basti found himself nodding as Danti finished.

“I think he’s up to something, too,” he added. “Remember, that night he showed me the wolf, and then it broke into my room?”

“I don’t trust him,” Danti declared.

Caterina sighed, looking very young to be in this situation. Basti wished there was someone else in the keep who could take her responsibilities. He wanted to keep her safe, but he didn’t know how.

“I’ll talk to him myself, as soon as we all return here. Maybe he’ll tell me the full tale. If he doesn’t….” She looked down, studying the floor. “I’ll ask you and Araciel to guard him while I discuss the matter with Father Völker.”

Danti laid a calloused hand on her shoulder. She looked up, questioning.

“Are you going to be all right?”

She smiled faintly.

“Don’t worry. I … I would just like some sleep. And I’m worried about Dietrich.”

“If there’s anything I can do….”

“I’ll be fine.” She straightened, pulling a strand of hair from her face. “Thank you for telling me about Naich. I’ll talk to him.”

Danti nodded, worried for her.

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

The sculptor hesitated, then turned to the group again.

“If there’s nothing else to do, I want to get some work in before nightfall,” he said loudly. “Araciel, why don’t you come with me? I’m willing to bet my noise won’t keep you awake, and I can keep an eye over you while you rest.”

“I should not,” Araciel demurred, glancing at Caterina.

“Go on,” Basti urged him. “Get some sleep. You’ll need to be awake for tonight, if Father Völker’s right.” Araciel had shifted his sword to the other side of his belt, to draw it with his good arm. Basti doubted the fallen angel could use a saber in his off hand with that shoulder wound, but he held his tongue. Whether or not he could fight, he definitely needed to sleep. Basti himself had only managed to snatch a few hours of rest between their return to the keep and the kitchen meeting; just enough to make him realize how badly he needed to lie down.

“No argument,” Danti agreed. “I’ll carry you, if I have to. Stop being so damned stoic; even you need rest once in a while. We’ll have plenty of work for you later, I’m sure.”

“It’ll be all right. Go on,” Caterina said, a flash of affection warming her sad eyes. Araciel gave the three a resigned look.

“It seems I be given little choice,” he gently complained. “But my lady, do call should you need me.”

Caterina nodded, and the fallen angel allowed himself to be drawn away by the sculptor.

“Basti, I want to go to my parents’ room,” Caterina said, after the others left. Past her drawn expression, Basti saw a calm determination in her eyes.

“Whatever you want.”

They walked out into the cold halls. Alrune and Naich intercepted them, heading back toward the kitchen. The dwarf carried three swords, including the one Basti had seen Araciel holding earlier in his abortive summoning attempt.

“Naich, I want a word with you later,” Caterina said, sounding much like her mother. Naich nodded, pausing before them.

“Which is more dangerous a tool to sculpt flesh and bone?” Alrune asked, stopping in the middle of the hall and holding out his laden arms. “A scolding tongue or a sharp sword?”

“Don’t be rude, Alrune,” Caterina said. The dwarf’s eyes widened in mock fear.

“Forgive me, my lady. Will you let your new knight choose his weapon?”

Basti hesitated, looking into the scholar’s glittering eyes. As usual, Alrune wore a jester’s costume, half black and half white. A steel-edged smile played on his lips as he held the swords out.

Basti half-raised a hand, then stopped. He’d never swung a sword anywhere but in his boyhood daydreams. As much as he feared the wolves, the thought of killing a child, even in self-defense, made him ill.

“Uh, maybe I’d better not,” he said, circling away to where Caterina waited at the door to the stair tower. Naich stepped forward, taking one of the swords from Alrune’s grasp and holding it out. His pale grey eyes were emotionless.

“But, I can’t even use it,” Basti protested. Still, he slowly reached out and took it from the composer’s hands, unable to quite resist the temptation of his old dreams. To play condottiere, even if only for a night…. No, he couldn’t resist, and despite himself he felt a thrill of excitement as he half-drew the blade and admired it. It was heavy, and more awkward to hold than he’d expected.

“‘Thou shalt not kill,’” Alrune reminded Basti, turning and following Naich into the kitchen. Basti stared after him, uncertain again.

“I really don’t understand him,” he muttered to Caterina as he rejoined her. He struggled to buckle the white-leather belt around his waist.

“You have to think in riddles ,” she replied, starting upstairs. Her voice was strained but steady. “Alrune does makes sense, in a patchwork kind of way.”

“Where does he come from? Do you know?”

“Not really,” she said, as willing as Basti to settle on a painless subject. “He’s a scholar, and his accent comes from Firenze. But he’s never said much about his past. Like Naich … although I guess it’s too much of an effort for Naich to communicate, so he doesn’t bother.” Her voice was thoughtful. “I wonder where he comes from.”

“Naich?” Basti pondered the name. “Hard to tell. Anywhere from here to Vienna, I’d guess.” Basti grinned. “At least with a surname like mine, there’s never any doubt about where you come from.”

“Has your family always lived in Napoli?” Caterina asked as they reached the third floor and stepped into the south hall.

“I don’t know. I was an orphan.” Basti fell silent as Caterina hesitated at her parents’ door. For a moment he thought she had changed her mind, but then she quickly threw the door open and stepped inside.

“Do you want me to stay out here and wait?” Basti asked, standing in the doorway. Caterina shook her head.

“There’s no need.” She had to force a smile as she stood surrounded by her absent parents’ belongings. Basti stepped inside.

Her parent’s chambers took up two rooms; through the door of the rearmost, Basti could see a curtained bed and cedar chest. The front room, where they stood, was where the lord or lady might talk to intimate friends. It was filled with small tables, straight-backed chairs and a glass-fronted case that displayed books, stacks of paper and curios.

Caterina looked around indecisively a moment, then walked to the glass-fronted case. Turning the small silver key in its lock, she opened it and knelt in a whisper of skirts. When she stood and turned, she held a slim pine box.

Basti sat in a wooden chair by the door, yawning. She placed the case on one of the small tables in the room and unlatched it. His eyes widened as she lifted the lid.

“Donna Caterina!” He scrambled to his feet and leaned over the table to get a better view, sleep forgotten. “Where in the world did your father get that?”

“It was a gift from his brother in Germany. It’s for cavalry,” she said, lifting the slim wheel lock pistol and handing it to him. Basti carefully turned it over in his hands, openly admiring the gold chasing on barrel, lock and decorated mounts. Even the wood of the stock had been carved. He could tell the piece had been made especially for the lord of Gestern Keep from the motifs; ivy twined around sun, moon and stars, and Signore Johannes’ gryphon had been carved into the stock, just like the window. “The inventor was still trying to convince someone that this design was an improvement over the old one when my uncle bought it for Father. I don’t know if there are any more like it now or not.”

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed, handing it back. Suddenly the sword around his waist seemed terribly antiquated. “Can you use it?”

She nodded.

“Father showed us how to use it when he first got it; he loves inventions and gadgets. I wondered if he’d taken it with him.” Caterina set the pistol aside on the table. “He doesn’t like to shoot it; he’s afraid of breaking the mechanisms. It works, though.” She picked what looked like a silver flask to Basti. “The powder’s in here.” A gesture toward a soft leather bag. “The balls are there.” Basti picked up the bag and shook the lead spheres into his hand. There were five. “And there’s a rod for cleaning.”

“Are you … do you think it’ll work against the Erl King?”

“I intend to find out.” Caterina took one of the balls from his hand and loaded it, powder and wad through the muzzle, then twisted a small key by the lock three-quarters around.

“More powder goes into the pan,” she explained, pointing to a small covered depression. “But I don’t want to put any in yet until I’m ready to fire. Father says it won’t go off accidentally, but I’d rather be careful.” She gave him a fleeting smile as she replaced the gun in its velvet-lined box, and took the bag and balls from Basti, placing them near the powder flask and latching the case shut.

Basti shook his head, impressed by both the gun and her knowledge of its use. The lord and lady, he thought as he watched Caterina lift the heavy case, had made certain their daughter could take care of herself.

“I’ll carry that for you,” he offered.

“Thanks.” She handed him the case. “I suppose I should find a carrying strap or a pouch to put everything in, instead of this case.” She smiled a little at the incongruous mental image of dress and gun. “I think it’s actually supposed to be stored on a saddle somewhere, since it’s for horsemen.”

“We could probably find a bag,” Basti suggested. “Then you could get to everything faster.”

“I was thinking,” she said hesitantly, “of borrowing a belt and pouch from you or Araciel. I could put everything there….”

“Uh, sure, why not?” The idea of her wearing a man’s purse hadn’t occurred to him, but Basti could see the logic in it. “You can borrow mine. For that matter,” he admitted, “it’s more yours than mine, anyway. Araciel said most of the clothes I’ve got belong to your cousins.”

Caterina glanced at him, a hint of amusement playing around her lips.

“You might as well keep them,” she said. “They grew a lot last summer; I don’t think those clothes would fit now, anyway.”

“Well, if you want it, you can have it.” Basti shrugged, lifting the case slightly. “I think it’s smart for you to have a weapon close at hand. Araciel and Danti are the only people trained to use a sword here. You should stay near them tonight.” He grimaced, feeling a little embarrassed. “I wouldn’t be much protection.”

He half hoped she’d disagree with him, but all she did was glance cautiously out the door behind him. Well, he thought, she’s probably less concerned with sparing your feelings as keeping alive tonight. He shook his head.

“Come on,” he said, “the belt’s in my armoire.”

“A blade for Pygmalion,” Alrune said with a bow and flourish, handing the ceremonial sword to the sculptor. Danti wiped his dust-covered hands on his breeches and took the blade, hefting it in a businesslike manner and eyeing the steel.

“Hardly a dueling weapon,” he said with a shrug, setting it on the table by the door. “The thing’s not even sharp.”

The scholar gave a humorless smile and pulled the whetstone he’d been using the previous night from his jacket pocket, placing it next to the sword.

“Thanks.” Danti rubbed his eyes. Four nights of work, and only a few hours of sleep in between. Nor any sign of sleep to come this night. His eyes burned. “What time is it?”

“Nearly dinnertime,” Alrune replied. “And the Erl King has invited his children to come and sup.”

“Thou seemeth pleased at the prospect,” Araciel murmured, opening his eyes and looking up from where he’d lain half asleep in a chair.

“I rely on the Erl King’s taste,” Alrune said cheerfully. “And you suit it more than I do.”

“Where’s Naich?” Danti asked suddenly, looking around. “Isn’t he supposed to be with you?”

“Our alaunt is in the kitchen.” Alrune turned. “Coming?”

“We’re supposed to be staying in groups, and I don’t want that musician off on his own,” Danti said irritably, pulling off his work apron. He’d tossed his doublet and giaquetta in a corner when he’d walked in, and he wasn’t in the mood to put them on again. Instead, he found a short, much-mended velvet coat and pulled it on over his shirt for warmth.

“E’en such as you may not be proof against the Hunter’s wiles, Mandragora,” Araciel added. He grimaced as he sat up. “I’d not see you made a wolf’s meal.”

“Such consideration. And from such a source.”

“Would you two stop that?” Danti glared from one to the other, strapping the sword around his waist beneath the coat. Lamplight flashed from the buckle as he loosened it. “To tell the truth, I’m running out of patience with both of you.”

“I am his slave; no mirror can reflect another without a darkening.” The scholar smiled ominously as his eyes met Araciel’s. For a long moment the two stared at each other in wordless appraisal. Danti scowled. The wind outside his shuttered, south-facing windows howled in the studio’s sudden silence.

He’d known for some time that something dangerous trembled suspended between the two; but this was the first time he’d seen them acknowledge the fact themselves. Despite his bulk and the weapon at his side, the sculptor felt winter cold creep down his spine. The fallen angel and dwarfed scholar ignored him, locked in their own silent communion. With the absence of the lord and lady of Gestern, Danti thought uneasily, what was left to restrain the two?

“Who be thee, in truth, Mandragora?” Araciel whispered at last, standing stiffly. The dwarf gave him a twisted smile, and Danti held his breath.

“‘Why asketh thou thus after my name, seeing it is secret?’” he mocked. “I’m the misfit, the academician, the carpenter who walks to and fro and up and down through the earth.” He ran a hand over his motley tunic. “And I’m the one who’s going to eat your dinner if you don’t hurry.” Teeth flashed as he turned and walked through the door.

“Araciel?”

“I know not, my friend,” the fallen angel said, not turning to look at him. “Thou hath ne’er had thought to fear me before. I pray thee, start not now.”

Danti shook himself.

“Fear you?” He laughed. “You’re the least of my worries.” I hope, he added silently.

Araciel waited until he passed, then picked up the lamp and followed.

The deafening call of a hunting horn rang through the halls and echoed from the stone walls and floors.