Death on Hell Hill E-Book

Juraj Červenák

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 400

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

"Death on Hell Hill"by Juraj Červenák is the first installment in the historical detective series Captain Stein and Notary Barbarich, which takes readers to the 16th century in the Kingdom of Hungary. Packed with elements of espionage, mystery, and horror, this atmospheric detective novel features Captain Stein, a war veteran and master of weapons. Stein is joined by his companion, the educated notary Barbarich. Together, they investigate mysterious murders and political intrigues in the world of royal mining towns. The plot revolves around uncovering treason among local nobles collaborating with the Ottomans and the eerie legend of the townswoman Barbara Roessl, whose ghost is said to appear accompanied by hellhounds. Červenák’s story masterfully blends suspense, adventure, and historical details that will captivate readers.

Leseprobe

Death on Hell Hill

By Juraj Červenák

Translated by Montgomery Blue

www.justgoodbook.com

Table of Content

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

About the author

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Stein arrives but the party is already over, meets the dreaded Black Bey, and receives an assignment he thoroughly dislikes.

In early April 1598, spring was in full bloom. However, the road to Rab reeked of blood and decay. As Stein approached the city, the stench grew increasingly worse. Not even the breeze stirring the reeds and groves among the Danube's branches could help; the rot overpowered even the smell of horse sweat. The chirping of smaller birds had been replaced by the raucous cries of ravens and crows, which crisscrossed the sky in flocks of hundreds. Eventually, Stein was overcome by the feeling that some sort of gray moldy layer had settled, even on those freshly green meadows. He muttered grumpily under his breath. It wasn't that he was sensitive about it. The smell of death had been a faithful companion on military campaigns; he had long since become accustomed to it. What troubled him more was what it all meant. The fight was over. He had missed all the fun.

Beyond the trees, which had been used as gallows, the walls finally appeared. The river turned, the road along with it, and Stein arrived at a wide open space before the White Gate. Long past time to rename it. The walls around the portal were marred with black smudges, making it look like the mouth of a condemned man whose tongue had been scorched by an incompetent executioner. Stein's experienced eye scanned the massive bastions and the curtain of walls between them but did not notice any recent artillery damage. There had been no siege, so the fortress must have been captured by a decisive assault on the gate. The crescents erected over the city in ninety-four had finally disappeared, and Christian flags once again fluttered over the battlements—the double-headed black eagle of the Habsburgs, Palffy’s golden stag, and Schwarzenberg's silver tower.

A long cry made Stein lower his gaze. The moat was lined with sharpened stakes upon which were impaled human heads, pieces of quartered bodies, and whole corpses. The sun, insects, and birds had already done part of their work, but Stein estimated the oldest were about five or six days old. The battle had therefore taken place in the last days of March. The cry turned into a roar and then a scream. The voice lost all humanity, in its desperation and incredible pain. Stein plunged into the crowd on the bridgehead—mostly men in military coats, hussar cuirasses, and dolmans. When he began to push through, some turned angrily and wanted to shout at the brute. But upon seeing the burly rider with a bristling mustache and piercing eyes, they swallowed their curses, humbly stepped aside, and more than one person pulled off their head covering and lowered their gaze. A whispered rumor spread through the assembly.

Meanwhile, the scream turned into a rattle. Above the heads in hats, sheepskin caps, and helmets, a stake rose with a still-quivering naked body on it. The shaved head and long black mustache revealed the victim’s identity. The crowd roared in unison, cruel mockery mingling with curses against the Mohammedan dogs.

Hungarian horsemen finally stopped Stein. An ensign held a flag with a not-so-pompous silver duck. Francis Nadasdy had added three dragon teeth to it, which he inherited from the Bathorys’ coat of arms.

"Next!" roared a tall, black-haired rider and turned to the small group of kneeling prisoners. However, his gaze fell on Stein. He frowned, turned his horse, and urged it toward the hussar line. The riders parted without being prompted.

"Stein! By all the bones on the Mohacs field, is that you?"

"Your Grace," Stein lowered his gaze.

"Damn the titles!" Francis Nadasdy, Lord of Sarvar and Schachtitz, pulled off his glove, darkened and hardened with dried blood. "What's brought you here, old friend?"

Stein clasped the offered hand; the callused palms nearly grated against each other. "Better ask where I've been stuffing my belly that I missed such a glorious victory. Though the word was that the offensive wouldn’t start until St. George's Day."

"Of course, it was said loudly," Nadasdy bared yellow teeth. "Loud enough for Mohammedan ears to hear."

"I see," Stein looked at the shattered gate. "Did it work? Did you catch them unprepared?"

"Not that they didn’t put up a fight. They jumped out of their beds like devils from a furnace, grabbed their scimitars, and the streets were full of them in no time. They repelled the infantry; Palffy's cavalry had to storm the city. The world hasn’t seen such bloodshed since Ostrihom. We lost three hundred men in battle, three hundred more in a powder magazine explosion in the northwestern bastion; Ali Pasha had it blown up to cover his retreat."

"And the heathen losses?"

"Fifteen hundred black souls are bubbling in Lucifer's pot. And more are joining them."

Nadasdy glanced back. His men had stripped another prisoner, threw him face down, and tied straps to his ankles, connected to the harnesses of two draft horses.

"Chilling tales of the devilish Black Bey will be a bit scarier now," Stein remarked. "Trying to outdo Vlad the Impaler?"

"In war, a bad reputation serves you better than a brave heart. It makes enemies flee before you even draw your saber. This bunch of devils just got unlucky. Count Seszneky and I were chasing Ali Pasha and his men towards Buda Castle. Under Ostrihom, we crossed paths with a large unit of akinjis. They were heading north, surely to plunder Upper Hungary. So, we let the Pasha escape and hit this rabble instead. A good three hundred corpses were left to rot on the spot, two dozen infidels were taken captive. We managed to catch the leader; Palffy had him stretched on the rack. The rest were ordered to be sent to the heap, so now I am giving the men some entertainment."

A whip cracked, and the team of horses pulled the Turk toward a stake, aimed by Nadasdy's men between his legs. The poor man’s eyes bulged, and he howled, his voice echoing off the walls.

"Don't let me distract you from your fun, Captain," said Stein, urging his horse. "I must report back to duty with the general."

"But I expect you for a glass of good Upper Hungarian plum brandy tonight," Nadasdy called. He had to raise his voice as the Turk's scream intensified.

"Only one?" Stein threw over his shoulder. The hussar commander laughed and turned his attention back to the stake and the prisoner.

"What are you dragging it out for, bastards?! Even my wife has more talent for torture than you!"

*

"Stein!" called General Adolf von Schwarzenberg. "Come on in. Servants! Food and wine for the Captain!"

Stein walked through the long hall. The new lords of Rab had not yet removed the lavish Turkish furnishings—shutters and colorful drapes on the windows, thick oriental rugs on the floor, ottomans, cushions, and low couches instead of tables and chairs, calligraphy on the walls, even a hookah and a stand with a Quran in the corner. Stein considered the latter an outrageous sacrilege. Despite the celebrations, the city itself evoked rather desolate feelings. It smelled worse than the bridgehead, and wherever one looked, there were decrepit, blackened walls, collapsed roofs, and burned-out furnishings behind shattered windows. This wasn't the work of the Turks nor due to the recent fighting—the city had been devastated by Rab´s commanders Lambert and Hardegg during the Turkish siege in ninety-four. After the defenders' surrender, the Sultan's army entered a wasteland. No wonder they named the city Yanik Kale—Burnt Fortress. And in four years of Mohammedan rule, Rab had not recovered.

Hence, the relatively intact Bishop's Palace and its main hall felt like an island of civilization amidst the pervasive ruin. Stein stopped at the edge of the carpet—his boots were covered in dust and worse things he had stepped in since dismounting outside. With his hat in hand, he knelt on his right knee; when bending the left, he had to grit his teeth. "Your Grace," he lowered his gaze to the colorful ornaments.

The other man in the hall was Count Nicholas Palffy, the governor of Komarno County, commander of the Hungarian forces along the border, and chief captain of the mining district. Unlike the warmly welcoming Schwarzenberg, Palffy greeted Stein with a stern, scrutinizing, almost distrustful look.

"You're still limping, Stein," he growled. "You were overcoming great pain when you knelt."

Stein looked up. "It's nothing, sir. I'm just stiff from the long ride…"

"Really? Stand up."

Stein took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and began to rise. Midway through, he wavered and had to support himself with his hand on his left knee.

"The count's right," Schwarzenberg frowned. "Our healer released you for home recovery in this condition. If it hasn’t improved all winter, it's hard to hope…"

"I'm not a cripple, Your Grace," Stein snapped irritably. "I don't walk with a cane. Of course, when the weather changes or after a long time in the saddle, I feel my knee..."

"What's with the tone, Stein?" Palffy growled. "I may be a vulture but even I didn’t lose my sight like those carcasses outside the gate. Each of us has been scarred by the war with the infidels, but you are clearly suffering. That arrow from Dotis must have caused more damage than the surgeon supposed. Frankly, I wonder why you returned to the army in these circumstances."

Stein's tightly pressed lips barely parted. "War is the only trade I have ever plied, Your Grace. I know nothing else."

"How old are you, Stein?"

"Forty in June."

"No young man. God grants few the grace of reaching such an age in full health. I was hoping you would fully recover in the care of your wife and servants. But your condition hasn’t improved since autumn. Isn’t it time to hang up your sword and ask the military council for a pension? Given your merits, it wouldn’t be insignificant."

"Sir," Stein clenched his teeth, "I won't go home. I came to fight, to crack heathen skulls in the service of His Majesty and Your Graces. I still wield a sword skillfully, and my hand doesn’t shake when shooting. Even with my lame leg, I can be of use!"

Palffy and Schwarzenberg exchanged glances. The general raised an eyebrow, the Hungarian commander shrugged. Then they both looked pensively at Stein again. Through the slightly open window came the sounds of the courtyard—a mixture of Hungarian, German, Czech, Slovakian, Spanish, and Walloon French.

"What are we to do with you, having traveled half the empire…" Palffy sighed after a long silence. "Ultimately, you still have your head on your shoulders. A head that has served us well many times. I think we have something to occupy it with."

Before Stein could ask, a servant brought a tray with food. Stein needed no second invitation; he handed his cloak and hat to the servant, sat down on a cushion with another muted groan, toasted the lords with good Jager wine, and dug into a roasted trout.

"How are things at Silberstein?" Schwarzenberg asked.

Stein glanced sideways at him. The general sat with his head slightly pretentiously raised, a pointed beard sticking out over the lace ruff, and his mustache curled upward like two devilish horns.

"All well, Your Grace. Thank you for asking."

Palffy chuckled. "Learn to lie better, Captain. What's that Silver Rock really like?"

"A castle at the foot of the Giant Mountains," Schwarzenberg answered for him. "I gave it to the Captain for his merits at Ostrihom. Previously, it was managed by the Zilvars."

"They left the castle ten years ago," Stein grumbled. "They preferred the bourgeois life in the new castle in Wolfdorf."

"Of course," Palffy sneered. "Their balls froze to the chairs at the mountain castle. And as it seems, even your health isn’t flourishing in that place. I hope at least your family doesn’t suffer from lack."

Stein’s jaws halted.

"Am I wrong?" Palffy’s lips curled downwards.

"God gives, God takes," Stein managed to say after swallowing his bite. Then he grabbed his goblet and drained it in one gulp, crudely, tavern-like, until streams ran down his chin onto his jacket. On Schwarzenberg's orders, the servant refilled his cup as well as the lords'.

"I'm sorry I missed the fortress's capture," Stein cleared his throat.

"In fact, Captain," Palffy was clearly pleased with the change of topic, "you contributed to the victory."

Stein looked at him questioningly.

"Didn’t you notice the shattered bridge gate? We used the same ruse as last year at Dotis. Your idea."

"Not just mine, sir. We devised that plan together with the Lord of Pernstein.”

"Always modest," noted Schwarzenberg.

"It's not modesty, Your Grace. I just don’t like embellishment and distortion of facts. May I ask exactly how you evicted the infidels?"

"We surprised them on the twenty-eighth at dusk," the general readily narrated. "Our scouts intercepted a message that Rab was expecting supplies and ammunition from Buda Castle. So, we sent a fake convoy with three Turkish-speaking riders in the lead. While they argued with the guards, the wagons hiding the French sappers crossed the bridge. Before the rags could raise the alarm, we managed to attach a petard to the gate, and La Marche blew it up. Remember La Marche?"

"Of course."

"He prepared an excellent charge – the gate shattered into a thousand pieces. Troops that had been hiding south of the walls until then attacked across the bridge. Meanwhile, more men climbed the walls on ladders so that at the moment the gate was destroyed, they could flood the streets. Despite everything, the Mohammedans quickly recovered and began to fight back like wolves."

"Fortunately, cavalry units under Nadasdy and Seszneky stormed in and turned the tide of battle," added Palffy. "It’s a great victory for Christians and the true God. We expect Archduke Matthias to arrive any time. He wants to see the battlefield with his own eyes."

Stein frowned again. "Now, I will never forgive myself for arriving late."

"The war isn’t over yet, Captain," Palffy reminded. "As long as Ottoman excrement empties onto Hungarian soil, we’ll find work for men of your talents."

"If I can join the kicking of those rumps, sir…"

"You can, Stein," the commander leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on the edges of the armrests. "I’m sending you to Upper Hungary. Specifically, to the mining towns."

Stein raised a bushy eyebrow. "That’s not a war zone, sir."

"In a way, Captain. Even in the rear, the battle continues. Often more brutally than directly on the battlefield."

"Intrigue, Your Grace? That’s not my thing…”

"Don’t jump to conclusions, Captain." Palffy sipped his wine. "Nadasdy and Seszneky chased Ali Pasha and other fugitives toward Buda Castle after the fortress fell…”

"I heard, Your Grace. The Black Bey told me about the band of akinjis they scattered along the way."

"Band? More than three hundred heavily armed cutthroats. They could have caused unbelievable havoc on Christian soil. Moreover, their odabasi confessed under torture that they weren’t sent by some local sanjak-bey but by Ahmed Pasha of Buda Castle himself."

Stein frowned deeply. "Where were they headed?"

"Schemnitz. Silver Schemnitz, the richest mining town in Hungary."

"The mining towns are well-protected. Fortresses like Pukanec, Bzovik, Levice…”

"Captain," Palffy interrupted, "as the commander of the mining district, I know exactly where the watchtowers and signaling stations are, the strength of garrisons in the castles and towns. Despite all precautions, the Turks penetrate the area. They have appeared even in the Schemnitz area, plundered surrounding villages, killed many people, and took even more into slavery. It puzzled me how they managed it. To slip into the mountains, you need to know the paths, the placement of sentries…”

"Turncoats," said Stein. "There’s always a swine who for a few coppers shows the infidels the way. Some scoundrels have made it a lucrative livelihood."

"I’ve had a few such scoundrels broken on the wheel and hanged on the hook. But new ones always emerge. The odabasi’s unit allegedly had a mountain guide waiting for them at a prearranged place."

"Where exactly?"

"At an abandoned mill by the Krupinica River, about a mile past Palasht. The agreement was that he would wait there every evening until the second Sunday after Easter. I thought I’d send someone to sniff out and arrest the traitor. And just then, the sergeant reported your arrival. It’s hard not to see a sign in that."

Stein took a deep breath. "May I speak freely, Your Grace?"

"You haven’t been until now?"

"Hunting down traitors in Upper Hungary's hills can be done by any mercenary."

Nicholas Palffy nodded. "But the interrogation wasn’t over, Captain. The odabasi sang like a nightingale in the Sultan's golden cage. He revealed they didn’t intend to plunder around Schemnitz but in the town itself."

Stein raised an eyebrow. "It’s well-fortified, and you recently reinforced all the garrisons in the area…"

"The odabasi chirped out for the promise of a quick death that there’s another traitor. Ahmed Pasha allegedly formed an alliance with a townsman who knows a way to get the Turks into Schemnitz."

Stein frowned like a pagan god of thunder. But it was no longer the original refusal—questions and fragments of possible answers swirled in his dark eyes.

"What do you say now, Captain?" Palffy smiled. "Does it sound like a mission worthy of your skills? You’ll go to Krupinica and capture the mountain guide. From him, you’ll find out who was supposed to be waiting for the enemy near Schemnitz."

"And if I don’t catch the traitor at the mill? Anything could happen..."

"Then, you’ll go to Schemnitz and find the traitor another way. I believe you’ll think of something. You’ll get a letter assigning you full authority, as if I were in your place myself. The town’s honor will comply with your every request."

"They won’t like that," Schwarzenberg remarked. "Schemnitz is a free town, its townsfolk like to consider themselves independent of the nobility, even of the monarch..."

"The Captain will swiftly dispel their illusions, right?" Palffy leaned back in his chair.

"You have a sharp mind, Stein, the plan to conquer Dotis rivals Odysseus' Trojan horse. No matter how I look at it, I can't imagine anyone more suitable for this task." Said Palffy.

"Not to mention, you'd get rid of a lame cripple who would only be in the way," Stein muttered.

Both commanders frowned.

"Watch your tongue, Stein," Nicholas Palffy said coldly. "We don't want to start seeing your famous straightforwardness as insolence."

The captain lowered his gaze again, but they received no apology this time either.

"So, it's settled," concluded the Hungarian commander. "I can imagine you're exhausted after your long ride, but surely you understand that you need to set out as soon as possible. Replenish your supplies of food and ammunition, and you can continue. Remember, even though we thwarted one heathen raid, it was just by a stroke of luck. As long as Ali Pasha has a secret ally in the richest mining town, he won't stop craving its treasures. The traitor must be identified and neutralized at all costs!"

"As you command, Your Grace," Stein conceded. "Will I ride alone, or will you assign me an armed escort?"

"The nature of the mission itself precludes going with a drum to catch a hare..."

"So, alone."

"You'll get an aide. One, but highly useful. Especially if interrogation in tortura is necessary." Schwarzenberg cast a surprised glance at Nicholas Palffy.

"Jarosh?"

"Who else?"

"He will be more useful to us."

"We have plenty of other executioners; go look in front of the gate."

"They are not as talented. That young man barely tickled the odabasi, and the heretic started screaming like a damned soul at the bottom of Gehenna..."

"Exactly," Nicholas Palffy shrugged, as if a chill had run down his back and he wanted to pull his collar tighter. "I don't feel comfortable in his proximity myself. There's something about him... I can't even name it. He took pleasure in the torment he caused that Turk. But not the vulgar, slobbering kind like some brutes you'll find in every army. It ran under the surface; only his eyes gave him away. Ugh. But something tells me he and the captain will get along."

"You think? I don't recall ever hearing Jarosh utter a single..." The general paused, noticing Palffy's smirk. "Oh, I see. Right. Now I understand."

"Before I forget," Nicholas Palffy looked at Stein, who stood up with a stifled groan, "the odabasi, with his soul on his tongue, also mentioned a place where the second traitor was supposed to wait for the akinjis and the mountain guide. There is one of the watchtowers that guard the access roads to Schemnitz."

"I'm listening, sir."

"Hell Hill."

Stein nodded thoughtfully, bowed once more, and headed for the door. He hoped that the Black Bey had finished his bloody pastime so they could proceed with plans related to the brandy as soon as possible.

CHAPTER TWO

Stein and Jarosh travel to the upper country, devise plans, and find what they weren't looking for in an abandoned mill.

They rode along the Danube. Shortly after noon, they arrived in Komarno, but didn't head to the fortress on the northern bank. They ate at an inn and continued riding until midnight. The next day around noon, they saw the majestic walls of Ostrihom. Stein stood under them last in '95, when the imperial troops under the command of Karl von Mansfeld and Archduke Matthias von Habsburg wrested the city and fortress from Turkish clutches.

There was no time for memories. Stein nodded at Jarosh, and they crossed to the northern bank via a floating bridge. From Palanka, they continued to the Hron, crossed it, and then headed northeast, straight to Palasht.

These were lands scarred by war. Just a few years ago, the border line between Tekov County and Sechan Sanjak ran through the Ipel river basin. The villages here were mostly devastated, with only weeds, rats, and sparrows thriving in the ruins.

On the third day, they arrived in Shahy. Near a fortified monastery, scarred by two Turkish attacks and an imperial siege four years ago, stood an inn.

"We'll stay until morning," Stein decided.

Jarosh, as usual, neither objected nor agreed. Since Rab, he hadn't said more than a dozen words. Stein found this convenient; he wasn't in the mood for unnecessary chatter.

Honestly, he was never in the mood for unnecessary chatter.

They stabled their horses and sat down at a corner table, where they could watch the entire premises. Their gear and weapons attracted considerable attention. Stein noticed that upon their arrival, a few suspicious individuals quickly finished their drinks and fled. Stein ignored the furtive glances and paid no mind to return them.

The serving girl sent by the innkeeper to dote on the guests with a bulging purse didn't fare any better. Although Jarosh glanced sideways into her cleavage as she set the jugs and plates on the table, Stein glared at the harlot so sternly that she adjusted her bodice as if before a priest and left them alone.

Without a word, they ate lentil soup and roasted sausages with sauerkraut and fresh bread. Then they drank beer at the cleared table. Meanwhile, it grew dark outside. Candles, oil lamps, and a large open hearth flickered in the tavern. Stein pushed aside a candlestick and spread out the map given to him by Nicholas Palffy.

"It's about seven miles to Palasht," he showed with a dirty fingernail. "If the weather doesn't worsen, we'll be there by noon. The Krupinica flows through this valley, the mill is approximately here. We must find it ourselves. If we ask around, the traitor might hear of it – if he waits at the mill every evening, he won't be far during the day either. We mustn't scare him off. We'll scout the mill and set a trap. How's your marksmanship, corporal?"

The young man shook his head. "Only cold weapons, sir."

Stein glanced at the bench where Jarosh had placed his belt. In leather and iron loops hung a massive dagger with a long handle and a large two-handed sword with a plain hilt and pommel.

"Can you wield that junk? It must be as heavy as a log."

For the first time, something like an emotion flitted across Jarosh's face – a brief glint in his eyes, a ripple in the chewing muscles of his lower jaw.

"It’s a gift from my father, sir."

"Is that supposed to be an answer?"

"I’ve been practicing with that junk from the moment I could lift it. Same as with the dagger."

Stein looked into Jarosh's eyes. They were impenetrable once again. He nodded.

"The plan is: You'll wait inside. I'll lend you a pistol. Do you want the shorter one or the longer cavalry model? Spanish or flintlock?"

"I’m really not a good shot, sir."

"I get it, corporal. Ideally, there won’t be any shooting. The pistol is just to intimidate and subdue the enemy."

"Understood."

"I'll take a position outside with a rifle and secure the perimeter – in case the traitor senses the trap or manages to escape the mill."

"He won’t escape, sir."

Stein nodded again. "We need that dog alive. Any questions?"

"No, sir."

This time, the innkeeper brought their drink. Stein moved an empty cup from the corner of the map, which immediately rolled up.

"May it serve your health, officers," the innkeeper bowed. "It’s evident you’re brave Turk-fighters. May I ask what brings you to our parts?"

"No," snapped Stein.

"I understand. I’m not one for curiosity and don’t make a habit of poking my nose into others’ affairs..."

"Good."

"I ask only to assist, to advise, to show the way. Many people pass through this inn, many valuable insights. For a small fee..." The innkeeper fell silent, caught by Stein's gaze.

"The only thing we need," said the captain, "are two beds without bed bugs."

The innkeeper looked to Jarosh for a friendlier expression, but he was sorely mistaken – the cold, almost dead look in the young man's eyes sent a shiver down his spine.

"As you wish," he bowed and hurried to the taproom.

They sat and drank. The tavern was unusually quiet; the patrons refrained from the usual singing, shouting, and obscene jeering at the barmaid. They whispered with their heads low over the tables and occasionally cast furtive glances at the armed men.

"What’s your denomination, corporal?" Stein asked unexpectedly.

Jarosh focused, as if returning from another time and place. "Catholic, sir."

"Good. Your full name?"

"Bohdan Jarosh."

"Where are you from?"

"From Prague."

"I know a Jarosh from Prague. Luckily, only from hearsay."

"You mean Vaclav Jarosh."

"Who else? Master of the sword of the Old Town of Prague and the Highest Executioner of the Czech Crown."

Jarosh looked at him with a narrow face, made even paler by his long black hair, showing no expression.

"Is he your relative?" Stein asked.

"My father."

The captain's bushy eyebrows rose to his thinning hairline. "That explains a lot. What exactly did you practice with that sword from an early age, corporal? Fencing or chopping off human heads?"

"Both."

"Growing up among racks and red-hot pincers must leave a mark."

"I know worse environments one could grow up in."

"Indeed."

"My father is a god-fearing man with an honest living. A master of his craft."

"I don't doubt it. Many executioners, besides taking lives, also restore them. For obvious reasons, they have extensive knowledge of the human body. They can set bones, sew up wounds, extract bullets. What about your father?"

"Yes, he has a decree allowing him to perform surgical tasks."

"Did he also teach you some of these skills?"

"Partially."

"Hm. Now I understand why Schwarzenberg considered you a useful person and didn’t want to let you go on this expedition."

Jarosh drained his mug.

"What’s your stance on that?"

"On my usefulness, captain?"

"Are you pulling my leg, corporal?"

"No, sir."

"This expedition. What’s your opinion on it?"

"None. I follow orders."

"Oh, come on."

"Sir?"

"Under that mask you wear instead of a face, there must be a thinking man with his own opinion."

"My opinion doesn't matter, sir. I do what people with more sense than me tell me to do."

"Are you convinced that your superiors are necessarily wiser than you?"

Jarosh hesitated. "We’re to catch a scoundrel responsible for many lives and great property damage. We’ll save many Christian souls."

"Sure. But wouldn't you prefer actual combat? Right in the frontline? Instead of this trudge into the godforsaken mountains?"

Jarosh shrugged. "I follow orders, sir."

"More beer, officers?"

Stein turned to the innkeeper, who had sidled up to their table again. "No."

"Then at least a nightcap. A sip of plum brandy..."

"No. We’re getting up very early. Are the beds ready?"

"Certainly."

"Lead the way."

"If you crave anything, gentlemen," the innkeeper glanced at the harlot, "just say the word..."

"Have the horses watered and saddled by dawn," Stein instructed curtly.

The innkeeper respectfully bowed and backed away.

When the armed men ascended the steep wooden staircase to their quarters, the flames on the wicks seemed to leap more cheerfully. The shadows that had cloaked the taproom retreated to the corners. It wasn't long before someone plucked up the courage to start a song. Cautiously, others joined in.

*

The weather held, the land above Shahy was flat, and the road good. They spotted smoke from Palasht’s chimneys just before noon. They immediately left the path as they had planned the evening before – trying to avoid encounters with the locals.

They headed across the as-yet unplowed field towards the Krupinica and continued along the bank, sheltered by thick willows and alders. The thickets slowed them noticeably, forcing them to proceed at a walk.

They skirted Palasht from the west and headed upstream. The spring thaw and heavy rains had subsided, and the shallow bed was edged with mud. Hooves lifted from it with a loud squelch, like thick porridge bubbling on a stovetop.

Suddenly, Jarosh’s horse’s steps went silent. Stein turned around. The executioner’s son leaned in the saddle, looking down with interest. The captain stopped his stallion and the pack mare and squinted.

From the debris, an empty eye socket of a human skull stared back at them.

"There’ll be plenty of those," Stein said. "In the fields by the village, there must be bones like in a graveyard. They probably plow up rusty swords, helmets, or cuirasses from time to time."

Jarosh looked at him. Although he didn’t ask, Stein continued, "In fifty-two, imperial troops clashed with a Turkish horde here. Our men were unprepared and got a brutal thrashing. Thousands died, thousands were taken prisoner. Even the then-captain of Rab, Teufell, was taken to Constantinople in chains. The sultan had him sewn into a leather sack and thrown into the Bosporus."

Jarosh gave a slight nod and urged his horse forward.

The winding Krupinica valley gradually narrowed, and the hills on either side grew steeper. The vegetation along the river intertwined with the dense forest on the slopes. As soon as the sun set behind the ridge to the left, it grew dark among the trees.

Then a dam loomed ahead. Below it stood a mill – dilapidated, with a leaky roof, submerged in shrubs and weeds. The millrace was dry, the water from the pond flowing through a broken sluice further away. The wheel had long since stopped turning, ensnared by greenery and silt.

Stein and Jarosh dismounted at the edge of the forest.

"Dusk is falling; the traitor might already be lurking inside," whispered the captain. "We’ll do it as planned – I’ll watch the surroundings; you’ll scout ahead."

Jarosh nodded with a stony expression.

They tied up their horses, hung their hats on the saddle horns, and armed themselves – Jarosh kept the dagger and held Stein's heavy saddle pistol with an almost three-span long barrel in his hands. The massive sword remained by the saddle on the captain's order. It would only get in the way.

Stein attached a scabbard with a broadsword to his belt – the handle was protected by a basket hilt adorned only with scratches from enemy blades. He placed a shorter flintlock pistol in the leather holster on his baldric. Finally, he loaded his rifle. It was an expensive hunting weapon from the renowned Silesian gunsmiths in Teschen. It had a rifled barrel of an unusually small caliber, allowing precise shooting at long distances. This was why it had been increasingly used in the army recently.

From the bushes by the road, they surveilled for some time the dilapidated building and its vicinity. They saw no movement. Water gurgled, birds sang, mosquitoes and gnats occasionally buzzed.

"I’ll hide behind those rocks," Stein pointed to a rocky slope by the road.

"What about your knee?"

"What about it?"

"The slope…”

"Corporal," Stein switched from whisper to growl, "don't worry about my knee. Until I say it hinders me, you won't mention it. Understood?"

Jarosh lowered his gaze. The captain snorted and nodded.

"If the scoundrel escapes, he can only run north or south. I’ll bring him down regardless. You wait until I’m in position, then go inside. Keep your eyes open. If he's inside, try to capture him. Otherwise, take up a suitable position and wait."

Jarosh nodded again.

"God be with you," Stein added.

The young man looked at him as if not understanding the meaning.

Stein parted the bushes with the barrel of his Teschen gun and quickly scanned left and right. The road was deserted. He stepped out from the hazel thicket and with his head down, ran across the road.

He walked through the shaded undergrowth, trying to remain silent. Jarosh was right, of course; the knee began to protest. He climbed to the cluster of rocks with clenched teeth.

As he anticipated, from this position, he had a good view of the road and the mill, while remaining hidden from any casual glance from below. While waiting, he finished loading his musket – he poured powder onto the pan, wound the lock key, and lowered the hammer to the wheel.

Soon he noticed a slight movement. Jarosh was sneaking through the undergrowth along the millrace. Stein focused on the mill; he rested the Teschen gun on a rock and aimed, in case anyone spotted the corporal prematurely.

The silence deepened.

Jarosh emerged from the hawthorn thicket right in front of the building, crouched across a small open space, and pressed his shoulder against the wall near the door. They were wide open, the rotting door sagging lifelessly on cracked hinges.

The corporal listened momentarily, raising the barrel of Stein’s pistol to his face. Then he carefully peeked inside.

Immediately, he entered.

Stein breathed deeply. His heart didn’t speed up, but he distinctly felt its beat.

For a long time, nothing happened. The sky dimmed, the pink streaks above the horizon gradually turned gray.

Then Jarosh stepped out, his arm with the pistol lowered. He waved toward the rocks. Stein frowned.

"Captain!" the corporal called when there was no response. "It’s over!"

Stein cursed and carefully uncocked the hammer.

*

"Report, corporal!" Stein crossed the road and waded through burdock and nettles to the mill. He noticed hoofprints and boot marks on the porch.

"Someone was killed in there, captain. Not long ago – a day, at most two."

"Did you find a body?"

"Only blood. It’s still sticky."

Stein looked at the wall by the door. A few small indentations marked the speckled plaster. He pried out flattened lead with his knife.

"There was shooting here."

"At some unknown time."

Stein nodded and stepped into the dim entrance hall. Opposite, he saw another broken door and next to the doorframe, a dark, partially smeared handprint. He carefully touched it, rubbing his index finger against his thumb. He sniffed.

"Really fresh."

They entered the main room. Light entered through a hole in the wall beside a half-collapsed chimney. It was damp and moldy, smelling of mustiness, rot, and bodily waste. Stein spat. The spittle landed on a large bloodstain. Brown smears stretched from it across the floor toward the stove.

"The hearth is still warm," Jarosh noted.

"If that much blood came from one man, he couldn’t survive." Stein stopped at a worm-eaten, fungus-covered table. The surface was dark, wet, sticky…

"Either they tortured someone here," Stein considered, "or they placed an injured comrade here and tried to treat him."

The corporal turned from the stove to the captain and stretched out a palm dirty with ash. Lying on it was something like a piece of charred wood. Stein looked closer and recognized a nail.

"There are more there," Jarosh nodded toward the stove.

Stein frowned. "Several riders arrived at the mill. They purposefully or accidentally encountered our man. There was a shootout, and someone took a hit. A group member or the traitor, we probably won’t know. Nor why they were cutting off fingers and for whom."

"County guards could have caught him here."

"Uhm. The scoundrel loitered around the surrounding hills and villages while waiting for the Turks, surely stealing now and then, maybe harming someone or venturing under a girl's skirt. Someone could have reported him. Guards attacked the mill, and then tried to extract why he was here, who he was waiting for, and conspiring with."

"Or they just wanted revenge for a shot companion.

Stein nodded. "God knows if he's still alive. In the best case, he’s being taken to some fortress in shackles..."

Kraaaaaaaa!

They quickly grasped their weapons. A raven flapped its wings. They saw it through a hole above the stove, moving away toward the dam, over the pond.

Stein squinted and limped to the door leading to the back of the mill. On the threshold, he bent over.

"More blood. Someone was dragged through here."

In a room that once served as grain and flour storage, rats still scurried. Stein had to stomp to get them to let him pass. With Jarosh on his heels, he exited onto the backyard where carts usually stopped. Both squinted.

"So no guards," Jarosh spoke after a while.

"No. They wouldn’t bury a fallen comrade under nettles like that."

Despite the hour, insects buzzed loudly. Amidst the spring greenery, a dark brown, freshly dug patch of soil caught the eye. The grave must have been shallow and carelessly covered, so predators attracted by the blood easily sniffed out the buried body. Various-sized paw prints loomed in the soil – wolves, foxes, perhaps stray dogs, and feral cats.

The body lay nearby. All day it had been food for beasts and birds, losing its intestines and most of its muscles. One hand was even severed and tossed into the ferns. Jarosh walked over and squatted.

"Fingers?" Stein asked.

"Intact."

"And this one," the captain looked at the hand still somewhat attached to the torso. "Someone else was tortured here. This man seems to be one of the riders, fallen in the shootout at the entrance. He didn't have good pals. Buried him like a dog, stripped him of everything but his footwraps and dirty underwear. Only the worst scum would rob a corpse like that. Bandits, haiduks, marauders, itinerant soldiers. Corporal?”

Jarosh stood up.

"You know what needs to be done. Find a tool and give this poor soul a decent burial. He likely deserved to end up in a raven’s stomach, but we are Christians."

"It will be dark soon, sir. Those riders took our man. We should proceed swiftly..."

"Didn’t you say following orders is preferable to having your own opinions?"

Jarosh's lips tightened into a thin line. He headed for the door to find something to dig with.

"Afterwards, we’ll continue, nightfall or not," added Stein. "According to the map, there’s a village three miles north."

The raven in the crown of a nearby oak croaked. It didn’t like being disturbed while eating.

*

It wasn't a real village; there was no church or tavern. Stein and Jarosh found it about an hour after midnight, exhausted, stiff from the long ride, and as hungry as wolves. They stopped their horses in front of the largest house. At the corporal's pounding on the door, only the dogs initially responded. If it weren’t for the smoke from the chimneys, one might think the villagers had locked their homes and fled to the woods. This often happened during Turkish raids – if the warning of the enemy arrived in time.

Only when Stein, invoking Emperor Rudolf, Archduke Matthias, and the captain of Upper Hungary, Nicholas Palffy, threatened them with the pillory, did the hinges creak and light flickered through the shuttered windows. An elderly voice asked who they were. Stein truthfully answered and added something about the rack and the breaking wheel. Finally, a key rattled and a bolt slid aside.

"Forgive me, officers," bowed the gray-haired reeve in a wooly coat. "We were frightened you were that marauding vermin from last night."

"What vermin?"

"Haiduks, noble sir. Half a dozen ruffians, well-armed, rough, insatiable, an utter disaster. They ransacked my pantry, defiled my daughter, and took sausages, eggs, bacon..."

"Six riders, you say?" Stein interrupted. "No others?"

"There was one more, sir. But he was unarmed, they carried him bound. The man was covered in scabs and bruises, his teeth knocked out, and they even cut off his fingers without properly treating them. His hand was merely wrapped in a dirty rag."

Stein and Jarosh exchanged glances.

"Did they mention where they were headed?" the captain asked.

"They left for the north in the morning. From what I gathered, when the spirits loosened their tongues, they were searching for treasure."

"Treasure?" Stein raised an eyebrow.

"Buried loot, sir. The fingerless one supposedly knew where it was hidden. They talked about a town in the Ora Mountains. Devil’s Hill, or something like that..."

"Hell Hill?"

The reeve pointed a thick finger at him. "That’s it, sir."

Stein took a deep breath. "Did they leave anything in your pantry? I’m not a haiduk; I’ll pay."

The reeve hesitated only briefly, then invited them inside.

They set out early in the morning, before dawn, heading briskly north to the silver town of Schemnitz.

CHAPTER THREE

Matthew Barbarich has a busy morning and meets Stein. The displeasure is mutual, but duty calls. Hell Hill awaits.

The banging on the door sounded urgent—especially since it wasn’t the usual cautious knocking that Bernard used in the morning. Matthew Barbarich didn’t even open his eyes, he just lifted his head off the pillow and grumbled something drawn out. It wasn’t words, just an expression of displeasure, a decision not to get up, and the opinion that the person at the door should move along.

Ulrika, on the other hand, squealed, jumped out of bed, and ran to the window, barefoot, pulling back the curtain. Dust swirled in the stream of daylight. Two crystal goblets sparkled, one of them overturned in a sticky puddle of wine and cracked. Barbarich scrunched his face and turned to the other side with another murmur.

“Holy Barbara!” Ulrika hastily gathered the scattered clothes hanging on the chairs. “We’ve overslept! It must be at least ten o'clock!”

Barbarich pulled the blanket up to his ears. “Didn’t you hear the church bell? Or the rattle?”

“You did?” he croaked. He wanted to remind her that she had arrived only at midnight and they had been drinking and carousing for another good three hours. But Ulrika didn’t like it when he talked about the night’s pleasures in the morning. As if with dawn, her conscience started screaming; the lips that had done incredible things to him at night suddenly lamented about sin and hellish torment.

“Get up! You have to help me with the corset!”

“I’m just glad I could free you from it,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Getting back into it you’ll have to manage on your own. Silly French fad.”

She leaned over and poked him hard enough that he looked back to see what tool she used; it was just her clenched fist.

“Get up, you lazy dog! How am I supposed to slip out now without being noticed? The street will be full of people!”

“Don’t panic. You’ll walk out the main door as if nothing happened. I’ll give you some papers to make it look like you stopped by for legal advice.”

“Who will believe that? We’re already the talk of the town!”

He finally opened his eyes wide. “Don’t even joke about that. If Hagen finds out, he’ll grab me by the balls…”

“Don’t talk like that!” She was quickly putting on her petticoats.

“He’ll smear me over the cobblestones like fresh horse dung. I won’t be employed as even a simple miner in Schemnitz.”

The door trembled again under an insistent fist. “Sir?”

“I’m not deaf, Bernard!” barked Barbarich irritably.

“It’s urgent, sir. Herald Wolf is waiting at the gate. You’re to report to the town hall urgently. The reeve’s order.”

Barbarich sat up. His head spun, and he nearly fell back. “Did he say what it’s about? Anything approximate?”

“No, sir. Just that it’s serious.”

Barbarich relieved himself into the chamber pot while still seated and slid it towards Ulrika. “At home,” she shook her head. “Don’t dawdle and help me with the laces.”

He got up, poured water from a jug into a basin, washed his cropped head, smoothed his goatee, and curled his mustache. “After I leave, wait a while,” he walked over to her. “Bernard will then lead you across the courtyard and unlock the back gate.”

“This is such a hassle,” she lamented, turning her back and lifting her thick brown hair. He couldn’t resist and kissed her on the nape. The tense body finally softened a little.

“Should I come again this evening?” she asked quietly. “Are you sure Hagen won’t be back until Friday?”

“Maybe not until next week.”

“Good. I’ll let you know.”

“What does that mean?” she cast a sharp glance over her shoulder. “You’re not sure if you’ll be in the mood for me tonight?”

“I will, no doubt. But if the reeve sent Wolf, then it really is urgent. I might be busy with obligations today.”

“Even at night?”

“Staying up late usually has two causes, dear. In the best case, women and wine. In the worst, matters that force the authorities to use words like serious and urgent.”

“A man like you should manage both.”

Barbarich just sighed and began the battle with the corset laces.

*

The profits Schemnitz made from gold, silver, and lead mining (highly sought after in wartime) were certainly visible in the town. The bustling Upper Square, home to the wealthiest miners, could put even Prague and Vienna to shame, not to mention Pressburg. Over the past few decades, townhouses under the supervision of Italian and French architects had grown into full palaces, many of them with their own fortifications. Everywhere sculptures, frescoes, and reliefs bearing the signatures of famous artists shone. Lavish carriages clattered over cobblestones unpolluted by waste (the oldest mines under the town served as sewers). Citizens dressed in the latest fashions strolled everywhere.