When the priest had left the townspeople had only slowly become unfrozen from their reverent, but fearful stasis. It had been Crippled Ed who’d broken the uncomfortable silence, with a surly comment about how it seemed even his last hope, that von Bolstedt was an imposter and soon to be gone, had passed. The comment had been met with a smack over the head by one of his neighbours, officially breaking the ice.

The evening had continued, with von Bolstedt only indulging to a limited degree. He still couldn’t fathom the priest’s motives in just letting him off the hook, and, frankly, he didn’t feel like carousing anymore.

He’d excused himself early, laying wide awake until the dark of night, before falling into a slumber that brought him little respite, plagued by nightmares he couldn’t recall in the morning.

Now he sat at the early table of the Zech’s, alone but for Gottlieb and his family, eating the strong, dark bread with, at best, moderate appetite. The table was uncomfortably quiet, and Adebar felt himself drifting into a broody mood. Tomorrow he’d do what he’d resolved to do. Frankly he had no choice now, but he imagined to have had a choice not too long ago. Strangely enough, he did not truly fear encountering Reibert again, but could not help but feel nervous, nervous like he hadn’t felt since his first duel, or that night with Rosalinde...it all felt momentous, like there would be no way back, as if this was the beginning of a new chapter of his life. The part that irritated him the most was that he didn’t even find it in himself to think of Emilia, of marriage. Something in him recoiled at the threat of thinking the situation through, and did not want to face the truth of the matter. He was going to kill her brother, and then everything would just work out as he wished. Doubt wouldn’t do now. Not when Diesdorf depended on him.

“Are you feeling quite well, Herr?” The soft voice of Frau Zech pierced the mental fog, guiding him back to a reality where he’d dropped the piece of bread he’d been gnawing at onto a simple, wooden platter, staring intently at some point beyond the tallest of the Zechchildren. The child was staring back at him rather sheepishly.

“Herr,” Frau Zech began again, “is it the leg?”

Von Bolstedt shook his head hastily, returning to his piece of bread.

He was not oblivious to the concerned look the Zech’s shared, but he did not know how to explain to them that there was a maddened swordsman coming to their very home to kill him tomorrow night, probably taking his revenge on everyone that had brought him here. Not before he had a plan to deal with Diesdorf’s monster.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

He had Emilia’s gift, so the actual deed itself wouldn’t be too much of a hassle, but he needed to get close enough to guarantee a lethal shot, as pistols were not the most accurate weapons at the best of times…

Icy claws dug into his conscience. How callously he thought of the deed, just shooting a man dead in the midst of night, it made him question his own righteousness. It was all based on a rotten lie. No, no sense in questioning, he reminded himself.

He needed a plan, needed to spring an ambush, overrun Reibert before he could react, and place the barrel of the gun right against his rotten chest, how hard could it be?

His own attempts at humour did little to alleviate his doubts.

He waited until Frau Zech had ushered the children away for the day’s work.

“Tomorrow night I will be taking care of the madman.”

Von Bolstedt spoke with such a nonchalant demeanour that Gottlieb was visibly taken aback, trying to figure out what he was even trying to tell him, before the concerned look of realization crept onto the innkeeper’s face.

“He will come here, Zech. I’ve drawn his ire quite surely, and now he is coming to kill me.” The innkeeper seemed righteously terrified for a moment, the wild, animal fear of the father that sees his little world threatened, fears that his own children will end like the monster’s prior victim, what the mad swordsman could possibly even conceive of doing to his wife. Adebar needed to use that fear now, or it would paralyze Zech and make him doubt the wisdom of depending on this foreign noble.

“I will face him in the streets, lie in wait and stop him before he can even set foot through your door, do not fear,” he tried to assuage Zech’s concerns before he could voice them, “but I will need your help.”

For a moment then, von Bolstedt feared the innkeeper would decline, cowed by the threat, irrational concern making him consider that, maybe, it was best to just cast Adebar out. Finally, Gottlieb Zech steeled himself, taking heart.

“I suppose it's too late to get away now anyways.”

Zech turned back to his shelf of beer kegs, staring at them absent-mindedly.

“If it helps to make this place safer, and maybe even helps to appease young Gerda’s soul, you’ll have my help. What do you need?”

“You, Zech. I need you.”