Exodus

67th Day of Summer

766 Karloman’s Peace

"I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!" the injured captive shouted, his voice broken and hoarse from an hour of screaming.

Evroul pulled the dagger from under the man’s fingernail. "All yours," he said, stepping away and handing the dagger to Florentin.

"Thank you," Florentin replied, taking the dagger

The man slumped against the back wall of the house. He had resisted his torture valiantly, but at last he had broken. Ekkehard was glad of it. All his brothers had taken turns interrogating the man, though Ekkehard himself had abstained. The whole sorry affair had been distasteful. Torture should never be employed as far as Ekkehard was concerned.

It was hard for him to look upon the man's battered state. The sight sent shivers up his spine and made him squeamish.

The man’s face was swollen from Audomar’s beatings, and he bled from various wounds. Two of his earlobes had been cut off by Florentin. Gerwald had broken all the fingers of his right hand, and three fingernails on his left were missing, removed by Evroul. The man sobbed, his tears barely escaping the mess of his face. Stripped of his armour and clothing, his body was bruised and cut, with several ribs visibly broken.

Looking to his blood-stained brothers, Ekkehard wondered how the boys he had grown up with, boys who had never killed or hurt another man before, could have been capable of this kind of mercilessness. He understood their anger, of course, he felt it to. He wanted revenge for what had been done to Cheldric, to Auriana, to all of their family, but fighting and killing a man honourably was different to this. This was inhumane.

This was beneath them.

It was necessary. Ekkehard understood that as well. They needed the information this man held, and in truth, they needed to sate their hunger for vengeance after what they had all suffered at the hands of this man and his comrades. More than anything else, his brothers needed something other than their grief to focus on.

Still, the ease with which his brothers partook in the harrowing spectacle made Ekkehard go cold.

He looked to Audomar, who paced like a hungry beast before the man, waiting on his pain wrought confession. It was as if he could barely control himself. Ekkehard shook his head. Where was the cool and calm leadership his brother had always shown? Where was the man he had followed into battle so many times before?

For a moment, Ekkehard considered seeking out and joining Aldedramnus, who had chosen to stay and comfort the women. If he did so, however, who would be left to tame his brothers should they lose themselves entirely? Thus, Ekkehard stayed.

Florentin knelt beside the man. "I don’t want to hurt you any further," he said softly, "but only you can answer my questions." He spoke with a gentle tone, as if to a grieving friend. "Will you answer them?" Florentin tried to look the man in the eye.

The man stared at the ground but nodded.

"Good," Florentin replied. "What’s your name, soldier?"

"Torsten," the man mumbled.

"Torsten what?"

"Just Torsten," he answered with a slight shake of his head.

"Okay then, Just Torsten," Florentin mimicked, amused. "That cloak you were wearing, those are Agilolfing colours, aren’t they?"

"Aye, sir," Torsten replied, his voice a low mumble.

"You’re an Agilolfing man then?"

"Yes."

"What do you do for them?"

"I am a guard.”

"A guard?" Florentin remarked, a hint of mockery in his tone.

"Yeah, a guard," Torsten replied.

"Not a very good one though,” Florentin observed. His eyes narrowed as his mouth formed a slight smirk. This got the man’s attention, and Torsten looked up at Florentin for the first time.

"What?" he bristled at the insult.

"You’re not a very good guard," Florentin repeated, "are you? I had a look around earlier. That was the body of Ruadbert Agilolfing I found, wasn’t it?"

Ekkehard suddenly understood why the mail-armoured man looked familiar. Ruadbert was the son of their neighbour Hanib Agilolfing. They had never been friends, but Ekkehard had seen him a few times while growing up. He had no idea what the Agilolfing family was doing with an imperial escort, however, or why they were involved in an attack on the Reubke lands.

"Yes," Torsten swallowed hard, "he insisted on leading the attack."

"And how does an Agilolfing end up at the head of an imperial raid?" Florentin inquired.

"Governor Jung placed him in charge at his father’s request."

Ekkehard interrupted the interrogation.

"Why would Hirsau’s new governor order his men to burn down our home and kill our family?" he asked.

Governor Jung was only recently appointed to the city, and the Reubke family had had no dealings with the man thus far. There was no reason for him to bear the Reubke’s any ill will. No reason for him to attack. It made no sense.

"Because he is a fervent man," the prisoner explained through gritted teeth. "Hanib told him you were all heretics and Governor Jung ordered your death without hesitation."

"Why would he believe that?" Gerwald asked, oblivious to what was obvious to all others.

The man didn’t answer. All faces turned to Ekkehard. This was his fault.

"Because of me," Ekkehard clarified. Gerwald looked at Ekkehard puzzled, and when realization dawned on his face, he looked to his feet.

Ekkehard felt sick.

He had brought about the death of his own son and so many members of his family, all because he broke his vows. It had been years since anyone last spoke of Ekkehard’s oath breaking, so long that he had even allowed himself to think the world had forgotten him and his transgression. This reminder had come in the most painful of ways. A mistake a decade old had cost him his son. He was no heretic. He would never be a heretic. But to some men, there was little difference between apostasy and heresy. It appeared that Governor Jung was such man.

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Ekkehard’s head spun, and his knees went week. Evroul helped him steady himself, seconds before he collapsed. The thudding of his heart was almost deafening.

"Why would Hanib do this?" Florentin asked the man.

"Greed," Audomar answered for him. "That smarmy little leech has been trying to buy half our estate for years. I’ve turned down a dozen offers from him. He’s always been a bastard, but I didn’t think he’d ever stoop this low. That’s it, isn’t it? He wants this farm, and he’s willing to kill us to get it?"

Torsten nodded. Audomar spat in return and marched a little way off from the group. Florentin thanked the tortured man, and the brothers gathered with Audomar, Evroul helping Ekkehard to join them.

“What do we do?” Gerwald asked.

"We run," Florentin concluded, his voice heavy with pragmatic resignation.

"I’d rather find Hanib and wring his fucking neck,” Audomar seethed, “but I don’t see what choice we have.”

"Why not?" Ekkehard asked. "The Agilolfing house is only a few miles away. Why not go and get them and pay them back? Blood for blood, as the gods would have us do?"

"Because he won’t be there, will he?" Audomar snapped. "He will be in the city with a hundred men by his side."

Ekkehard shook his head in frustration. Learning that this was all his fault had left Ekkehard seething, and he needed to do something to alleviate his guilt. He needed revenge.

"What do we do then?" Ekkehard spat back. "Where do we go?"

“We could appeal to the courts?” Audomar suggested. “We can prove we're no heretics and expose Hanib as a liar. He may even face death for his perjury.”

“No good,” Ekkehard declared, shaking his head. “The courts have no power over matters of faith, and no one can be named a heretic without affirmation from The Faith. Abbot Ren has signed our death warrants; I know that for certain.”

“To the capital then,” Florentin suggested. “Petition the emperor directly. Only he can overrule an Abbot's affirmation. Am I right?”

“There are a few others with such authority, but you’re right; the emperor would be our best bet,” Ekkehard agreed with a nod. “But it’s no good. Branded as heretics, we’d never get an audience, even if we could reach the capital and somehow get into the royal palace.”

“Then, what do we do?” Florentin asked, his tone and posture deflated.

"There is nothing you can do," Torsten interjected before anyone could answer.

The Reubkes turned and saw that the man had gotten to his feet and was shambling toward them. He reminded Ekkehard of the reanimated monsters in the scary stories Audomar had told him as a child.

"You have killed Hanib’s only son, he will pursue you wherever you go, arghh!" Torsten choked on his final words; his voice strained with pain.

None of the brothers had noticed Marcovefa until it was too late. She had marched around the servant’s house carrying Audomar’s spear and as the man spoke, she thrust its blade through the back of his head.

It emerged from his mouth, dripping dark thick black blood. His lips twitched as they caught the sting of the weapon and he gargled on its haft. When she withdrew the spear, its slid wetly out the back of his skull and Torsten fell to the ground in a slump.

Marcovefa dropped the weapon and glanced at her brothers. “He has done enough talking,” she said. She turned without another word and returned to the courtyard to wait with the rest of the Reubke women.

Ekkehard was stunned, and he didn’t have the first idea of how to react.

Marcovefa had never been violent a day in her life, let alone taken another’s. She was perhaps the most delicate of his sisters, the one most enamoured with the feminine arts. While Gisla’s fascinations were dominated by animals, particularly horses, and Oydela and Ereprad had both simply been obsessed with wine and gossip, Marcovefa had loved embroidery, dance, and the brewing of tea. She was petite and hospitable. She was not a killer.

Yet, she was. She had just killed Torsten as if doing so came naturally to her.

Ekkehard could not begrudge her the act, he supposed. He refused to even think of the horrors that had been done to her within the confines of their family home, that which would also have been wrought upon Auriana. His fists clenched and arms trembled. The man should have died a more horrible death for that.

Ekkehard shook his head, and turned his thoughts away, not wanting to linger on them any longer.

His brothers were equally surprised, all simply watching her silently until she disappeared from view. "Shouldn’t we check on her?" Gerwald asked after a moment of silent reflection. The brothers looked down at the mutilated corpse of Torsten. "Do you think we need to talk to her about that?"

"What would you say?" Evroul asked.

Gerwald had no answer.

They moved on.

"We have a head start," Florentin began. "It is a day’s ride to Hirsau, and the raiding party won’t be missed for a while. Let’s not waste that chance. We should get moving, east, away from the city." He appeared to be carefully contemplating his plan as he spoke. "If we are lucky, we will be two counties over before Hanib and the governor even know we are still alive."

The brothers all agreed the plan and spent the next hour collecting what they needed for the journey. They found a pair of carts in the stables and hitched them to horses. One cart was piled with food, clothes, furs, and other trade goods, including salvaged armour and weapons from the dead attackers.

The other cart was used to transport the three Reubke women and a servant girl who had decided to travel with them. Four more survivors, workers and farmhands, chose to stay with the group and assist with the preparations. The handful of others who had survived slowly made their excuses and headed off on their own.

Within an hour, the carts were filled, spare horses retrieved and saddled, and a pyre was built for the fallen. As the moon rose, the Reubke party gathered to bid their farewells, but no one could bring themselves to speak for the departed. It was not their custom to speak of the dead when grief was still fresh. That was what winter was for.

In the end, Ekkehard softly recited a short prayer.

"May Winter embrace you today, so that your seed may sprout anew in the gardens of Spring,"

He wondered what the garden would be like the day his soul was planted. Would his son’s seed flourish there, despite his young age? Perhaps a young man named Cheldric would be waiting for Ekkehard the day he departed the mortal coil. Maybe he and Auriana would have the family that was stolen from them in the next life.

"Look after him, oh King of Heaven," Ekkehard whispered to himself.

Shortly after, the pyre and the manor were set alight. Then, as night enveloped day, Ekkehard and his party departed the Reubke family manor.

They maintained a steady pace throughout the night, their paranoia and anxiety driving them to travel longer than they should have. When the moon reached its zenith, the party camped. Evroul and one of the farmhands prepared a stew and everyone ate, except for Marcovefa, who refused. Ekkehard thought that perhaps his sister didn’t have the stomach to eat, having killed a man only hours before.

Volunteering to take the first watch of the night, Ekkehard waited for the rest of his family to fall asleep, which took longer than he expected. They were plagued by nightmares, and he felt helpless as he watched his family toss and turn, battling the demons in their dreams, helplessly unable to aid them.

Ekkehard patrolled the surrounding area and found a secluded place for himself. He sat under a tree and silently cried until he fell asleep.

As the sun rose, Ekkehard woke to fresh cries of grief. Investigating, he found his family gathered around Marcovefa's body, lying in a pool of blood. A dagger lay beside her, its blade stained.

Ekkehard struggled to comprehend his feelings.

He was already bereft of sadness and had nothing to offer his latest departed sibling. Shamefully, he felt jealously relieved that Marcovefa had escaped her suffering. At least for her, it was ended.

A small pyre was built, and Marcovefa was burned.

This time, Ekkehard couldn’t bring himself to offer a prayer, and by midday, the Reubke party was on the move again. Ekkehard clung to the hope that this was the last loved one he would lose.

He looked overhead, and he saw the outline of a bird high in the sky, watching the exodus of the Reubkes.

The owl didn’t care why the Reubkes were leaving. All that mattered was whether there remained a suitable place to nest in the grounds that had been their family home. Flying high, the owl returned to the skies above the Reubke manor and inspected the charred remnants.

Little but blood and ash remained.

Nonetheless, the owl dropped out of the air and landed in the centre of the courtyard, where it was surrounded by the remains of the Reubkes’ attackers, left to rot. Their bodies were too large for the bird to feed on, as it preferred smaller, livelier prey, which was plentiful in the woods nearby.

Still, the owl lamented the senseless death, moved by circumstances it didn’t understand. It rotated its head to take in the full breadth of the place.

Something stirred at one end of the courtyard. A human in a purple cloak, still living, having feigned death and then fallen asleep, was now rising. The bird took off once again and circled the man from above. It eyed the human curiously as he fled the manor.

The owl didn’t care where the man was going. Why should it care if the man carried a message back to the city of Hirsau, reporting the Reubkes' survival to Hanib and the governor earlier than Florentin had envisaged? Why should it care if Hanib would swear vengeance on the Reubkes for the death of his son and march after them with two hundred men at his back? After all, the perils of man meant little to the owl.

All it wanted was for the humans to leave so it could claim these meadows as its own. A few days later, the owl did just that.