Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [120]
DIETRICH ASKED Thierry to put down the fighting, but the burgvogt declined. “I have here only the garrison,” he explained. “Five knights, eight sentries, two gatekeepers, and a towermaster. I will not expend them to pacify those … those creatures.”
“Why have you been left here, sir,” Dietrich demanded, “if not to preserve order?”
Thierry bore impertinence less patiently than Manfred. “Von Falkenstein is no man to idle while his enemies attack, and though he cannot strike Freiburg or Vienna, he is perfectly able to ravage the Hochwald. If he sallies, I will need every man hale, alert, and under arms. Should any Krenk flee here for sactuary, he will have it, but I will not police the fighting. That is Grosswald’s besitting, and I will not stand between him and his disobedient vassals.”
Discontent with this ruling, Dietrich borrowed a horse from the stables, and set off toward Falcon Rock, where he hoped to obtain Manfred’s intervention. The urge to press on warred with the need to pick his way carefully down the switchback along the side of the Katerinaberg and through the thickets and other obstacles in the gorge. He was still deep within the shadowed gorge when he heard a dull thump of thunder and saw a plume of dark smoke rise over the far end of the valley.
HE ARRIVED at Falcon Rock after nones, less weary in body than anxious in mind, and sought the Hochward banner in a sprawling camp of no particular order or arrangement. Noble emblems waved on all sides like the flags on a festival tree. Here, the double-eagle of the Hapsburgs; there, the golden sash of the Markgraf and the red and white bars of Urach. Elsewhere, each at its own bastion: the arms of the weavers, the silversmiths, and the other Freiburger guilds. Von Falkenstein had badly misjudged how long the guildsmen would tolerate his impositions. Now, the mechanics and shopkeepers had risen from their benches to pull the pebble from their shoe.
The camp servants were in great celebration and Dietrich saw the reason for it when he reached the head of the camp. The gates to Burg Falkenstein hung loose and the portal had collapsed, as if Sigenot had smashed it with his club. The clash of weapons and the shouts of men drifted faintly from above. The Krenkish thunder-paste had forced an entry into the schloss, but the way was narrow and, notoriously, the “gap of danger” could be held if stoutly defended. Indeed, the rubble mound below the breach had gleamed in the late afternoon sun with the armor and fittings of men and horses.
Dietrich found the Hochwald tents at last, but the Herr’s pavilion was empty, his body servant nowhere in evidence. Manfred’s honor would have propelled him into the gap of danger and he might even now sleep among those gleaming dead. Dietrich re-entered the tent and, finding a divan crafted in the Turkish style, set himself to wait.
AS EVENING deepened into night, the battle-sounds faded, signaling that the last of the “die-hards” had been slain or taken captive. Arms and armor fell to the victor, so many knights fought to the death, less for love of their lord than to escape penury and shame. Attackers trickled back into camp, chivvying prisoners to be ransomed, and carrying the loot with which years of highway robbery had filled Falcon Rock.
Earlier Dietrich had, from boredom, found a book in Manfred’s baggage; but as it concerned falconry, it had done little to relieve that boredom, and he had found himself fretting instead over the copyist’s hand or the qualities of the illuminations. When he heard the irregular tramp of hobnails outside, Dietrich put the volume aside and emerged from the tent.
Attendants had built the fire back up and Max the Schweitzer was settling his men about it. He straightened in surprise. “Pastor! What is wrong? You’ve been wounded!”
Dietrich touched the bandage. “There is fighting in the village. Where is Manfred?”
“At the chirurgeons’ tent. Fighting! Was it that sally from the watchtower? We thought they fled toward Breitnau.”
“No, the Krenken battle among themselves—and Thierry