The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [180]
“Find Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of Bern and Monique,” she said, and unrolled the canvas Manuel had given her outside the ruins of Kahlert’s manse on the day of their reunion. Monique’s spit had dried and Awa had kept it in its leather tube so the image was nearly intact, and she pointed first to the figure of Paris, then to Juno. “Niklaus and Mo. They’re over the wall. Bring them back. Fast!”
The arquebusiers leveled their guns at the pair of mad Swiss who had single-handedly killed eight of their number, as well as six pikemen and Sir Isengrin, which is when another half-dozen Swiss gained the wall behind them. Twenty triggers were pulled in broken unison but the dead travel fast and Monique and Manuel were both tackled by undead pikemen just as the muzzles flashed before them. The hail of shot blasted the skulls of all but one of the reanimated mercenaries, who drooled blood as he informed the prone artist,
“Mistress wants you.”
Monique and Manuel scrambled to their feet and fled, the crack-crack-crack of arquebusiers echoing their footsteps as order again broke down and the gunners desperately tried to shoot the two Swiss butchers. Then the pair reached the wall and jumped over the side, falling down the embankment and dislocating this ankle and that shoulder. Then Awa was there and they were limping across the field, von Stein again immaculate and unharmed at the lead of the tactical retreat, his two advisors at his shoulders, a dozen corpses shambling behind them as a meat-shield. Those who claimed to have seen von Stein back in camp were rebuked when his ruined corpse was brought in from the field much later in the day, and his advisors could not be found for questioning by a disappointed, but not entirely surprised, Vicomte de Lautrec.
The three friends parted ways outside Bern, in front of the red millwheel they had all passed many times before. After all the possible words were said Awa and Monique rode back down the road to begin honoring the requests of the dead souls who had spirited the necromancer off to where he should have gone so many centuries before, and Manuel looked at the wheel grinding through the water, round and around. The artist smiled. It did not look like a symbol for life, nor war, nor anything else —it looked like a fucking millwheel, albeit a pretty one. It was time to try his hand at some plays instead.
XXXVIII
Eternity in the Tomb
Paracelsus rapped again on the little red door, his palms damp despite the chill in the air. Wolves were moving through the underbrush, bats were winging overhead, and the doctor took a deep breath and tried the handle. It was unlocked. He went inside, leaving the door open so that the moon could provide some measure of light. Creeping into the room, he saw that a metal portal stood open over a pit, and then the door slammed shut behind him. In the blackness Paracelsus held his breath, and when he heard no other creature breathing he relaxed.
“What is your business?” a man’s voice said just behind him, and the physician jumped.
“I’m an associate of Awa?” Paracelsus took a step away from the voice, then remembered the open hole in the floor and tried to orient himself in the dark.
“She is no friend of ours.” A woman’s voice came from the other side of Paracelsus. “If she sent you here it was not for your benefit, friend of Awa.”
“I said associate, not friend,” said Paracelsus, his right hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. His palm fell past where the pommel should have been, and he tried to maintain his composure as he pawed the empty scabbard in disbelief. “She strongly advised me against coming, in fact.”
“Oh,” said the male voice. “Then perhaps she was a friend.”
“More than an associate, at least,” said the woman. “We should listen to our associates. Very foolish to