The Devil's Pawn Read online

  “Karl, my loyal Karl,” he whispered. “You’ve always been there.”

  “Johann,” replied Karl softly. He had never before called the doctor by his first name. “I . . . I love you . . .”

  The words had come out of his mouth as if his thoughts suddenly had a voice of their own. Strangely enough, the revelation didn’t seem to shock the doctor.

  “I know, Karl,” said Faust, smiling. “I know. And it’s all right.” He reached out for Karl, too.

  “Now wash each other,” said Father Jerome’s gentle, singing voice like from another world.

  With his right hand Karl stroked the doctor’s hair, then his warm, salty fingers ran across the doctor’s face, neck, chest, and down until they touched Faust’s pubic hair. The doctor didn’t seem to mind, and he, too, began washing Karl all over. With his right hand he stroked Karl and smiled at him. They were very close, their bodies touching, and Karl felt arousal rising up in him like lava inside an erupting volcano. He screamed his lust out into the world.

  They embraced, standing in the pool like one being with four arms. From afar Karl could hear the chorale of the disciples, accompanying their singing with rhythmic clapping.

  “Masterel, al zulath, esternis Locat, phrector! Zhooooool . . .”

  Karl didn’t understand the words, but they sounded very old and at the same time as if they’d only just been born. The organ music set in again, and Karl felt the drone in every fiber of his body, washing through him like a wave.

  This was the most amazing moment of his life—he felt so happy!

  He was completely wrapped up in his own world, his eyes closed with delight. He loved the doctor and the doctor loved him! He hoped this dream would never end.

  In this state of rapture, Karl didn’t see Father Jerome hand the doctor a razor-sharp dagger of polished obsidian.

  Two hours earlier, Greta had looked up at the castle one last time. Then she turned away with a sick feeling in her stomach and walked back into the woods where John was waiting for her.

  “Still nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s long past the agreed time. So far he’s always given the signal much earlier than this.”

  “I haven’t seen any watch fires tonight, either,” remarked John. “That’s what I find even more strange, to be honest. A large castle like this? And there were watch fires every other night.”

  “Something is wrong.” Greta sighed.

  John came up close to her and took her hand. They were standing by the edge of the forest to the castle’s west, the moat gleaming black below them. “Your father gave us clear instructions. If there are no more signals, we are to leave as fast as we can. I gave him my word that no harm would come to you, and I’m going to keep my word. I won’t allow the mother of my child to put herself in danger.”

  “Oh, John. You, you . . .” Greta was tempted to rest her head against his wide chest, but then she pulled herself together, straightened up, and crossed her arms defiantly. “Don’t talk to me as if I’m a fragile little lady sitting in a castle chamber. I’ve always been able to defend myself. I know very well what my father said. But that doesn’t mean that I follow his orders—or yours.”

  “You read his lines, Greta. I am very sorry, but he hasn’t got long to live. Maybe he’s already gone. He chose this path—no one forced him to go. And besides . . .” John hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  “If we noticed that no watch fires have been lit tonight, then those mercenaries will, too. I’m guessing that papal representative isn’t stupid. He has not just the giant but also some other men capable of invading an unguarded castle. You don’t need an army for that. There’s a good chance they’ll make use of tonight.”

  Greta pinched her lips. John was right; she hadn’t thought of the soldiers. Four days and five nights they had spent in the woods together. And even if concern for her father robbed her of sleep, it had still been an unforgettable time. John had looked after her most lovingly and built them a small, cozy camp. They had gone hunting together and purchased a few treats from nearby farmers. There John had also learned that foreign soldiers still hung around the area, including Hagen, who had been sighted. Viktor von Lahnstein had taken up residence at the tavern in town, and he was bound to observe the castle from there. It was possible that he’d decide to strike this very night. What in God’s name was going on up there?

  “Listen, John, I can’t bear this any longer,” Greta said. “I know I should keep out of it. But Karl is up there, too. And Faust . . . He is my father, after all.”

  “And what kind of father takes his daughter on a journey like this?” replied John hotly. “Your father is sick—not just in his body but in his head. I’ve always thought there’s something sinister about him.”

  “You mustn’t talk of him that way!” snapped Greta. But deep down she agreed with John. There truly was something sinister about him—malevolent, even. His wish to confront Tonio had grown stronger and stronger in recent weeks. And there was also something else—something she wasn’t telling John because she didn’t fully understand it herself.

  If Tonio really was up there at the castle, she wanted to face him, too. Ever since those unholy days at Nuremberg, he had also become part of her life.

  “I want to know what’s going on up there,” said Greta with a grim expression. “Is my father dead or alive? And what about Karl? I owe it to him, at the least, to check on them.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” John shook his head and pointed at the dark outline of the castle on the other side of the moat. “Even if no fires have been lit, the gates are closed.”

  “I’m a juggler, remember? If there’s anything I know, then it’s magic and trickery, and most of all control of my body.” Greta lowered her voice as if someone might be able to overhear her. But the only sound in the woods was the hooting of an owl. “Yesterday, while you were hunting, I took a look at the north side of the castle. You know—where the two newer towers are watching over the land. In the wall east of the bigger tower, numerous stones are missing and there are large cracks—I think it’ll be easy to scale. Especially if there are no guards posted atop.”

  “You can’t be serious, Greta. I promised your father—”

  “Come with me or don’t,” she cut him off curtly. “I climb up, find out what’s going on, and get out again. I’ll be back in just a few hours. You can roast a hare over the fire in the meantime.”

  Her face remained stony. Greta didn’t want John to see her inner turmoil, but she was deeply relieved when he threw up his hands in resignation.

  “You’re a stubborn, unruly wench, do you know that?”

  Greta grinned. “That, at least, is one thing I’ve inherited from my father.”

  The northern side of the castle was the darkest.

  Here, the small river Sèvre Nantaise wound its way through a valley toward the moat and the dam. The valley was so steep that scarcely any moonlight made it to the ground at the bottom. Thick undergrowth made their progress even more difficult, and Greta and John continuously got caught in thorny brambles. It was as if the castle didn’t want to be approached from this side. They found a shallow spot to cross the river. On the other side, the black castle wall rose into the night sky, additionally protected by a lower second wall. Some way to their left was a gate and a narrow road leading to the river and across a bridge.

  “What next?” asked John.

  Greta motioned toward the right, where the larger of the towers stood, a massive construction crowned with a ring of machicolations and a covered walkway. Underneath it stood one end of the dam, which separated the moat at the castle’s front from the river beyond.

  “Admittedly, there was more light yesterday afternoon. But at least there are no watch fires here, either,” she said. “We can climb up on those broken stones east of the tower. Also, in that spot we don’t have to climb over the outer fortifications.”

  John looked up skeptically. The wall
was at least sixty feet high. “We don’t know if there’ll be broken stones all the way to the top.”

  “I know, John! Like I said, you don’t have to come. But I think it’s doable. I’ve climbed up smoother walls than this.”

  It was a blatant lie. Greta could walk on any rope, and a few times she had scaled a church tower during her shows with Johann and Karl in order to reach her rope, but she had never climbed a wall like this one before. She had to convince herself that she could do it—otherwise she would falter or fall.

  “All right. But at least let me climb first.” John stepped up to the wall, felt along the stones, and started to climb, inch by inch. Greta watched him for a while. John was strong and athletic. He might not have been quite as flexible as an acrobat, but he was doing well—it certainly wasn’t his first wall. She tied up her skirts and followed him, her fingers searching for the ledges, cracks, and crevices John had used. They climbed in silence—ten feet, fifteen, twenty, and up.

  Greta avoided looking down. She focused entirely on her handholds and footholds. It still seemed endlessly far to the top, and increasingly mossy and slippery. But climbing forced her to focus entirely on the moment. There was no room for gloomy thoughts up here. Her heart thumping fast, she realized that they were doing even better than expected. They could really make it! She tried to ignore the thought that they’d probably have to leave the castle the same way.

  John was climbing faster than her. He was almost twenty feet above her now, his outline just a black shadow on the wall. As he climbed like that, swift and elegant as a dancer, Greta was overcome by boundless love. This was her man, the one she had been waiting for. And she carried his child in her belly; she could sense it strongly now. It wasn’t just a missed period—she was pregnant. She felt as if God had revealed to her that she would bear a child, John’s child. So long as she made it back down to the ground safely, she would thank God, she would pray and donate a large candle in the next church. She would—

  Her foot slipped on a slimy rock. She managed to grasp a protrusion with her left hand, a long, weathered stone, probably a pitch spout. Greta cursed under her breath. Daydreaming this far above the ground could have fatal consequences. What happened next was what she had been fearing the whole way up.

  The brittle stone in her hand broke.

  It fell down without a sound, the darkness below swallowing it instantly. Greta clung to the wall with only her right hand now, her fingers digging into a small hole in the rock.

  “John,” she managed from between clenched teeth, but it was as quiet as a small sigh. “John, oh God.”

  He couldn’t have heard her but still he paused, looked down, and immediately grasped the gravity of the situation. He started to climb back down without a moment’s hesitation. Greta knew that climbing down was much harder than climbing up, because you couldn’t see where your feet were going. But John had memorized his footholds well and moved as fast as he could. Meanwhile, Greta was still dangling from the wall, her muscles aching as if they were about to tear, only three fingers between life and death. She was too weak to find a hold with the other hand, and fear seemed to paralyze her. A cold wind tugged at her dress and salty sweat ran into her eyes, blinding her. She felt her strength draining from her body; her fingers slipped, one by one.

  Goodbye, John.

  Just then, someone grasped her left hand and placed it on a ledge.

  “Your feet,” said a gentle yet firm voice.

  Greta took a few moments before she understood that it was John.

  “There is a ledge right next to your left foot. You can easily place both your feet there—you just have to want it. It’s not hard, Greta. Do it!”

  Greta’s heart was beating so hard and fast that her chest ached. But somehow she managed to get her feet onto the ledge. It was another pitch spout, but this one held. She was surprised that she hadn’t noticed the stone sooner. In her panic, the wall had seemed as smooth as ice. Her breathing slowed a little.

  “It’s not much farther to the top,” said John. “Not as far as to the bottom, at least, and less dangerous. I was almost at the battlements, and I know you can do it. Can you do it, Greta?”

  Greta nodded slowly, her lips pressed together tightly.

  “Then say it! Say that you’re a juggler and the daughter of a sorcerer. Nothing can happen to you.”

  “I . . . I can do it. I am a juggler and the daughter of a sorcerer. Nothing can happen to me.”

  Greta took one more deep breath, then she left the safety of the ledge and pulled herself up the wall again, John staying close by. This time it was much easier, because John instructed her as to the best route up. It wasn’t long before her hands reached over the top. She pulled herself over the battlements and dropped into the round walk, where she remained for a long while. John was beside her, holding her hand. The crescent moon shone above them.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” he said softly. “Nothing can happen to you.”

  “Nothing can happen to us, John,” she replied and held him tight. “Both of us, John. We are immortal. Our love is immortal.”

  Greta cautiously got to her feet and looked around. They were standing in the defensive corridor not far from one of the two big towers that guarded the north side. There was no sign of light anywhere—no torches, no watch fires, as if the castle had been deserted. The manor house and the donjon were completely dark, but there seemed to be a faint glow coming from the church.

  “Do you hear that?” asked John.

  Greta listened. Now she also made out the low sound of an organ, a sonorous buzzing that seemed to come straight from the earth. It sounded like the castle was breathing.

  “Something’s not right, damn it,” said Greta. “Not right at all. Quick—let’s go see!” She rushed toward stairs leading down to the courtyard. John followed her. When they passed the empty manor house, John signaled at a building that stood a little off to the side. The shutters were closed, but a faint glow of light came from within. They cautiously approached the house from the rear and sneaked up to the windows. One of the shutters hung crookedly on its hinges, creating a gap for Greta to peer through. She saw a high-ceilinged room with a fireplace in which the remains of a fire glowed dimly. Piled atop a long table lay chewed bones, bread crumbs, cheese rinds, and knocked-over wine cups, as if a feast had taken place. Greta started when she first saw all the men stretched out on the ground, thinking they were dead, but then she heard snoring and saw some of the men toss in their sleep as if they were having nightmares. A trickle ran from a toppled barrel on the ground.

  “The guards,” whispered John. “Now we know why there are no fires on the towers. Those fellows are stewed—with wine or something harder.”

  “Or something more poisonous,” added Greta.

  Somehow the men didn’t seem like regular drunks to her; they appeared to be in comas. She guessed that not even a fire would have awakened them, and their dreams definitely weren’t happy ones. One of them even screamed out loud now, his fingers cramping into the jerkin of his neighbor, who didn’t wake up from it.

  “Hmm.” John nodded. “You might be right. They look like they’ve been knocked out. Probably with mandrake or cockle or something.” He pulled her gently by the arm. “Let’s go find out who is so eager to keep secret whatever’s going on here.”

  They hurried across the deserted courtyard until they reached the church. The organ music was very loud now, and Greta could also hear a monotonous, rhythmical chanting. Awful memories rose up in her, memories from the time when she’d met Tonio del Moravia in the underground passages of Nuremberg.

  I’m lying naked on a stone altar, the masked men are chanting, they are calling upon the devil in many different languages. O Satanas, O Mephistopheles.

  The door wasn’t fully closed, and Greta peered through the crack into an empty church that was lit up by many torches. Meanwhile, John had sneaked around the building and now returned excitedly.

  “
There’s a small side entrance,” he whispered. “I think it leads down below the church. The organ music and singing seem to come from there.”

  The entrance was a small but solid wooden door that was ajar, as if some late guests had just arrived. Greta hesitated briefly, then she opened the door a little further.

  She froze.

  “My God,” she whispered. “Please, John, tell me that I’m only dreaming.”

  But it was no dream. Below them in the crypt, about two dozen people stood in a circle, singing in a foreign language that seemed strangely familiar to Greta. Torches burned all around them, and she could make out the old-fashioned garments of the people, who looked like they had stepped out of a fading fresco. But she had no time to puzzle over it. Her eyes caught the scene in the middle of the gathering, where a circular hole in the ground looked like a well, or a huge ancient baptismal font. Two men were standing hip-deep in water inside it. They were naked, their eyes gleaming white in the light of the torches.

  “O Satanas, O Mephistopheles, O Sheitan,” rose the chorus of the people surrounding the pool. “Receive your sacrifice!”

  Memories from the Nuremberg crypt sprang to Greta’s mind. Then, too, a group of people had chanted and invoked the devil.

  But this was worse—much worse.

  Standing inside the basin were Karl and her father, who was holding a black dagger in his hands.

  He was raising it above his head, ready to stab Karl.

  “The journey to the master demands a sacrifice,” the priest whispered into Johann’s ear. “This is the final part of the ceremony. You must free yourself from everything, including him.”

  Father Jerome nodded at Karl, whose eyes were closed. He was smiling, making him look like an innocent lamb before its slaughter.

  “Are you ready for your great journey, Doctor Faustus? Your journey to Gilles de Rais? To Tonio del Moravia, your master and the master of us all? Then make the sacrifice.”

  The dagger in Johann’s hand was as cold as a starless night. It felt heavy, as if he were lifting a huge rock. Father Jerome’s voice echoed through his head.