David Wingrove - The Empire of Time

And now our men see the danger from the walls. There are shouts. A moment later, a group of knights ventures out, hurrying towards the Hochmeister and his party.

But that’s all I see, for in that instant the enemy are upon us. Johannes grunts and swings his heavy sword. I hear the wet sound of metal cleaving flesh, the heathen’s chilling scream, and then I too am in the thick of it, parrying a spear-thrust, then hacking at an arm. A severed hand flies up and falls, steaming obscenely on the frosted planks. For a moment it is as if I am unconscious. I thrust and parry and swing and cleave, numbed to the horror. My instinct to survive outweighs all else. Slowly we fall back, giving ground, yet keeping the small force of Prussians at bay. Then, suddenly, Johannes stumbles on to one knee. I stand in front of him, to shield him while he gets back to his feet. Yet even as I do, an axe swishes past me and thuds into his back.

I turn, bringing my sword up viciously, taking the man’s head clean from his shoulders. It’s a feat that shocks me as much as it shocks the Prussians. But I am outnumbered now, eight to one, and the space between me and the fort is alive with barbarians. Slowly I move back, fending them off, my sword scything the air about me, but it is only a question of time.

I kill another of them, noting, as I look past his fallen body, that there’s no sign of the Hochmeister , or of the group of knights who’d sallied out to help. All of our men are fallen. I am alone out here and the main struggle now is at the gate where, using ladders and logs, the Prussians are seeking to force an entry into the stockade. The fighting is fierce there, but I have no time to watch, for the ragged group about me now begin to press their attack with renewed vigour, thrusting at me with knife and spear and axe, forcing me back step by step. One mistake and they will be on me, like wolves on a fallen traveller.

For a moment I press back at them, wounding one, cutting the tendons of another. He falls with a timid cry. But more of them are coming — a dozen or more, freed from the struggle at the gate — and their cries urge my attackers to greater efforts. I lift my sword to fend off a swinging axe, then grunt as a spear thrust catches me on the upper chest. My armour deflects the blow, but it’s enough to send me tottering back, my sword falling out of reach.

There are shouts from my attackers. Shouts of delight. They’re grinning now as they watch me trip and tumble down. As I sit up, they form a circle about me, their bearded faces pushed towards me, mocking me, calling to me in their barbaric tongue — Curonian, I note, not Prussian.

‘Let’s skin the whoreson!’

‘No, let’s drain him like a pig!’

‘Burn him!’

‘Let the women have him!’

There’s laughter at that, but then the faces turn, watching as flames begin to rise up from the fort. And when they look back, the laughter’s gone, and there is nothing but murderous intent in their cold, dark eyes. Even so, they wait, and eventually another of them comes, a chieftain by his look.

He stands over me, a bear of a man, the comparison emphasised by the thick black fur he wears. There’s a wildness in his face that suggests a hint of madness, but maybe that’s just bloodlust. He looks down at me, enjoying my helplessness; his yellowed teeth form a grin. Then he looks beyond me to one of his fellows, who throws him my sword.

Catching it cleanly, he raises it high, then looks about him. The others bare their teeth and howl their approval, like wolves. Lifting the sword up and back, he brings it down, grunting with the effort …

The blade cuts the air. But I am no longer there.

With a pop of displaced matter, the great circle of Four-Oh shimmers into being, beneath me and about me. Surprised faces look up from screens at the surrounding desks, their surprise turning quickly to concern as they see the blood that laces my arms and chest.

Young Urte is there, and Karen, Helge — eight months pregnant by the look of her — and Brigitte, herself in the first stages of pregnancy. And Bella, and Lili and …

I stagger and then, as the ‘shield’ evaporates, let Ilse and Helge reach up and help me down, realising only then just how much the fight has taken out of me. I am bruised and cut, but otherwise the only serious hurt is to my pride. I have failed, and the price of my failure has been the wholesale slaughter of my friends. My brothers-

As they lead me across and sit me in a chair, I find myself overwhelmed with sudden grief at the loss.

‘What is it, Otto? What happened?’

I look up. ‘Where’s Hecht?’

‘I’m here,’ Hecht answers, as the hatch hisses back and he strides into the room. He comes across and, leaning over me, stares into my face.

‘You’re like him,’ I say.

Hecht’s eyes ask the question.

‘ Hochmeister Balk. He was tall, like you, and his eyes … are you sure?’

‘No connection,’ he says, and straightens up. ‘So what happened?’

‘Curonians. A raiding party from the north. I think they must have known Balk was there. If so …’

It goes unsaid. Yet Hecht nods. Russian agents. It had to be.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Physically, a few cuts and bruises, but …’

Hecht stops me with a look. ‘De-briefing in an hour. Before then, go clean up. And see Ernst. I’m told he has some news for you.’

I nod, then look about me. The women are smiling now, pleased to see me safely home.

‘It’s good you’re back,’ Helge says, touching my cheek fondly. ‘And now that we know …’

We can put things right back there . But will we? Or does Hecht have other plans?

Ernst is mid-sentence as I enter the classroom. His six young students — the youngest eleven, the eldest fifteen, their close-shaven heads showing a stubble of ash-blond hair — stare up at him, their backs to me as I step in through the hatch.

The lecture theatre — one of eight — is a comfy, cosy space, the shelves on its walls filled with colorful artefacts from the ages we have visited — fragments of many different pasts. Teaching aids, for when words aren’t enough. Oh, none of it is authentic, yet authenticity is something of a philosophical concept in this case, for these are perfect copies.

I smile, warmed by the familiarity of it all. On the wall behind Ernst, in large gothic lettering, is the slogan:

NEVER GO WHERE YOU KNOW YOU’VE BEEN BEFORE

Ernst looks up, glancing at me, and then his eyes fly wide open. A big beam of a smile lights up his face.

‘ Otto!’

The young students turn in their seats to stare as Ernst walks over and embraces me.

‘Careful …’ I groan. ‘My ribs.’

Ernst stands back, not sure whether to be concerned or to grin like an idiot. It’s six months subjective since I last saw him. As for him …

I frown. ‘When is this?’

‘August,’ he answers. ‘August eighteenth.’

I nod. August the eighteenth, 2999.

‘Did you …?’ He nods at my attire. ‘Did you become a Brother?’

I nod, and as I do, I see, behind him, how the eyes of the young men widen with awe at the thought. If there’s a single model for us, it is the Order. The Brotherhood of Teuton Knights. And I have been there. I can see how much they envy me for that, see how their eyes drink in the sight of my battered armour, the bloodied mantle that covers my shoulders. I am a hero from the Past, and they admire me.

My blood, incidentally. For nothing that’s not mine could pass through the screens on to the platform.

I sigh wearily, and Ernst’s expression changes. He looks at me, concerned. ‘Are you okay? You look-’