Frank Schätzing - Death and the Devil

“Whaaat?”

“Lamp oil, dammit. Or any oil. A jugful.”

In bewilderment Goddert looked from Jacob to Jaspar. The dean and Richmodis were desperately trying to make normal conversation.

“Y-yes, there’s a jug under the kitchen seat.”

“Fetch it.”

Goddert went even whiter and looked up toward the open hatch at the top of the steps. Jacob rolled his eyes and patted him on the cheek. “That’s all right.”

It was all a matter of luck now. He fervently hoped God would grant him just a few seconds, nothing really, just the few seconds he needed to fetch the jug. He had to pass underneath the opening in the ceiling. If Urquhart put a bolt through him, then it was all over. Jaspar was a powerful intellect, but physically he was no more a match for Urquhart than Goddert. And Richmodis might put one over on a drunken patrician, but that was all.

Lord, he thought, I don’t pray to you as often as I should. Thank you for all the apples I managed to steal. Have mercy on me. Just one more time.

Have mercy on Richmodis.

“I’ll get us something to drink,” he said, loud and clear.

“Good idea,” Jaspar cried.

He threw his shoulders back and went to the kitchen, forcing himself not to look up. Fear sent shivers of ice down his spine. There was no candle burning in the back room; it was pretty dark. He gave himself a painful knock on the edge of the table. The bench was by the window.

Jacob bent down and felt for the jug. His fingers touched something round and cool. He brought it out and smelled it. Oily. Just what he was looking for.

“I’ve got the wine,” he shouted to those in the front room. “Was under the bench. Empty those mugs, here I come.”

“They’re empty already,” squawked Richmodis. Her voice was too shrill.

He’s noticed, thought Jacob in panic. He knows we know—

With an effort he stopped his hand trembling and strolled back, deliberately taking his time. The hatch yawned above him like the gate to hell. When he passed underneath it for the second time, his legs almost gave way, but he made it. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth by the time he sat down beside Jaspar, put the jug in his hands, and whispered a few words to him. Then he picked up a piece of firewood, went over, and held it to the flames.

Richmodis and Goddert watched him, baffled. Jacob pointed silently to the ceiling and tried to work out the likelihood of his plan succeeding. Richmodis and Goddert were on the street side, therefore not in the way. Jaspar, opposite him, had stood up, clutching the jug and still chatting away. Kuno was on the fireside bench, next to the doorway to the back room and therefore closest to the hatch, but he was asleep.

It might work.

Come on, thought Jacob, where are you? Don’t keep us waiting. Show yourself.

“What if he didn’t—” Goddert said timidly. His hand was on the hilt of the sword, but his fingers were trembling so much that he wouldn’t be able to hold it for a second.

“Shut up,” hissed Jaspar.

Jacob frowned.

He suddenly felt unsure. What if Goddert was right and they were standing here like idiots for no reason? Perhaps Urquhart had decided to leave them to stew in their own juice until he’d carried out the main plan. He knew they wouldn’t leave the house before it was light. Did he really know that? And who said he knew where they were hiding anyway? Even that wasn’t certain. Richmodis had heard something at the back door, but it could have been the wind. And the steps outside the house? What had made him so certain it was Urquhart? Perhaps it was one of the night watchmen. Or just a dog.

Time passed at a snail’s pace.

Kuno mumbled something and opened his eyes. They were unnaturally bright. The fever must have risen considerably. He leaned on his elbows.

Jacob signaled to him not to move, but Kuno didn’t seem to see him. He slowly sat up and stretched out his hand as if trying to grasp something. His face was gleaming with sweat.

“Gerhard?” he asked.

“Keep down,” Jacob whispered.

“Gerhard!”

With surprising nimbleness Kuno slipped off the bench and staggered to his feet. He was right in the doorway. His gaze was unfocused.

“Gerhard!” he howled.

“Away from there!” Jacob shouted. He ran over to Kuno and grabbed him by the arm to drag him away. Kuno’s head whirled around. His eyes and mouth were wide open. His hands shot out and grabbed Jacob’s shoulders in a viselike grip. Jacob desperately tried to free himself, but Kuno seemed not to recognize him. With the strength of madness, he held him in a grip of steel, all the time bellowing Gerhard’s name until his voice cracked.

It all happened very quickly.

Jacob saw something large and black emerge from the opening and heard a snapping noise. An expression of immense astonishment appeared on Kuno’s face and it was a moment before Jacob realized where the arrowhead came from that suddenly stuck out of Kuno’s wide-open mouth. Then Kuno sagged, slumped into him, and pulled him to the floor.

The blazing brand slipped out of his grip and rolled away over the floorboards.

“Jaspar!” he shouted.

Urquhart appeared in his field of vision. He had a brief view of the murderer’s face.

It was completely expressionless.

With a whoop, Jaspar swung the jug. The oil poured over Urquhart, who spun around and hit Jaspar with a blow that sent him flying across the room like a doll, crashing into Richmodis. Jacob had to use all his strength to push Kuno’s body to one side and saw Goddert, in what must have been the bravest moment of his life, hurl himself at Urquhart, brandishing the sword in his right hand. His arthritic fingers were clenching the hilt as if no power on earth could loosen them.

Urquhart grabbed his wrist.

Goddert was panting. They stood, face-to-face, motionless as statues, while Richmodis tried in vain to push Jaspar’s body off her and Jacob feverishly looked for the brand.

Goddert’s eyes had a strange expression, a mixture of fury, determination, and pain. His panting turned into a groan.

“Father,” Richmodis shouted. “Let go of the sword.”

Urquhart’s features did not register the slightest emotion. Goddert gradually slumped.

Where was that blasted brand?

There! Under the bench. In a trice Jacob was there, pulled it out, and rolled over on his back.

“Father!” Richmodis screamed again.

She had struggled free of Jaspar and now threw herself at Urquhart. Jacob saw the crossbow raised and felt his heart freeze to ice.

“No,” he gasped.

Then he remembered there couldn’t be a bolt in it. The next moment the bow hit Richmodis on the forehead and flung her back. Urquhart was standing like a tree trunk in the middle of the room, his fingers still locked around Goddert’s wrist.

“Jaspar,” Goddert whimpered. The sword slowly fell from his grip.

Jacob heard the crack of Goddert’s bone at the same moment as he flung the burning brand. As it flew through the air, it hit the falling sword, which sent it spinning against Urquhart’s cloak.

The oil blazed up straightaway.

Stunned, Urquhart stared at Jacob, as the flames began to envelop him. Not a sound came from his lips. The next moment he was a pillar of fire.

A pillar of fire that was rushing toward him.

Jacob’s heart missed a beat. Two burning arms were stretched out. He felt them grasp him and lift him up. His own clothes started to burn. Jacob screamed, then his back was smashed against the closed window, again and again and again. He felt as if everything inside him were shattering into tiny pieces, but it was just the shutters he could hear bursting as the wood gave way under the violence of the onslaught. He shot through in a cloud of sparks and splinters, plummeting into the mud of the street.