I
Of the infancy of Hans-Konrad Hund
II
I will speak now of the fire.
But, before I do, I should like to say a few words about what came before, so that the events and the circumstances which gave rise to them may be understood in their complete fullness.
As a child I knew nothing about worldly matters, or of the political aspects of war, and I certainly knew nothing regarding the details of which princes were involved in which feud, as indeed even few learned men knew all the bare facts of these matters until some time had passed, for these affairs shift like the wind, and the long chains of cause and effect that govern them are like spiderwebs in their intricacy. It was only in my manhood that I came to learn that the despoilment of the Grünes Tal was done in the midst of the strife between the Count of Wolfenbühl and the Duke of Greimburg, that some now call the Eberingian Feud. It was known to me very soon after that it was the Black Guard who perpetrated this crime, but I will speak more on that later.
The struggle between count and duke began as a little spark, indistinguishable from the endless dozens of other stupid feuds that touched off in those days, but soon grew into a great conflagration, and this conflagration drew in many of the Volkish princes, near all of them whose domains touched Eberingia, as each of them saw in the flames the opportunity to pursue their own diverse and selfish ends, for all princes covet the land of their neighbor and will snatch at any excuse to take it. Even His Imperial Majesty joined in the bloodshed in the latter days of the war. And indeed, like only the most spectacular of these struggles, this war wrought a terrible destruction in the corner of the Empire in which it unfolded, for it is in the interest of each prince to destroy the house of his enemy, to burn his fields and to sow terror amongst his subjects, that his adversary might be weakened, as land and its cultivators are the strength of a lord’s prosperity.
This strife was one of the unnumbered bloody struggles waged by the Imperial princes against one another in those days, of the kind for which the common people always pay a bill in blood. That age, the age of the laughable “Eternal Peace” so-called, was defined by the proliferation of these feuds, and it seemed then, even into the years of my later manhood, as if not a day went by that a struggle wasn’t being waged; a feud by some poor, humanistic robber knight against a wily and overweening stadrat1, a struggle by some ambitious upstart landgrave against a proud but declining margrave, or a war by one prince of the Empire prosecuting some flimsy claim against another striving to secure his patrimony. Indeed in those days the Empire was like one immense feast, and every prince and burgher was rushing to grab his fill, stabbing at his neighbor's plate to take what he could before it all ran to naught.
In the 1105th year of our Lord, probably September, the Black Guard invaded the vales of Eberingia and plundered and burned many villages there. For what precise reason is not clear, though I suspect it was probably by the volition of the Black Guardsmen themselves, as remuneration for wages withheld from them by the Duke. It is like that the village I was born into was among those destroyed, though I do not know its name, and I have so far never taken it upon myself to return to that place and confirm the truth of the matter.
I remember only vaguely, but I believe it began on a grey morning. The sky was white with low clouds, and it seemed a deathly pall was over everything already. I did not know what was coming. I remember only a general air of tension and concern, on that morning and in the days prior. Adults spoke in hushed voices about the war, but it seemed the notion prevailed that whatever threat was on the horizon would turn its head elsewhere and spare us. People prayed, more than I had ever seen before, and the chapel down the slope from us was full in the days before the event, as the people supplicated the Father Omnipotent to avert whatever punishment they believed might lay in store for us. I did not know what this calamity was, of course, as no parent wants to tell an infant of the horrors of war, and most like that none or few of them had borne witness to it, and furthermore, it was that case that the Grünes Tal had known peace for many generations at that time.
I have often wondered, in the years following, why the people stayed there in the village. Why not simply flee?
With the experience life has brought me, I can say that it is not as easy a decision as it may seem. Becoming a flightling, that is, dispensing with one's belongings, uprooting one's life, and tossing one’s self and family to the winds of Fate, is a scary thing. How does one know where and how he will be fed? Find refuge from the elements, or indeed the war? Whither will one go, will he be safe there? Children complicate matters further. To stay in one’s home at least offers the promise of shelter.
I believe that the people of my village and the others thought, not unreasonably, that the host which they surely knew was coming would like to steal their stock, drive away their cattle and mules, ransack their cellars and carry away their kegs of beer and casks of wine, make camp in their houses, sleep in their beds, and perhaps take their daughters for a night. This sort of thing. This is what often happens in war, as a company of men must feed and entertain itself, and it shames me to admit I have participated in many such actions, though I have never taken a woman against her will. But it is not so terrible a thing to suffer robbery as it is to become a flightling, and to subject one’s self and family to the vagaries of the road, as with robbery, one still has his roof over his head, and one still has his neighbours, and a great deal of work can be done very quickly with the power of many hands once the robbers have moved on. I believe it was this sort of thinking, very reasonable thinking, that convinced my family and others to hunker down and remain in their homes.
What they did not know at the time was that the men who were coming were not ordinary brigands, but the Black Guard.
They would soon learn exactly who the Black Guard were, and the reason for their infamy.
On that morning I remember the bell, the bell of the chapel down in the village, donging loudly, over and over, pealing out across the valley in alarm.
Then came the first horsemen. They were on us very quickly, and my father was out to meet them, and I watched from inside the house. They led away the cattle and scattered the pigs. My father tried to parley with the three of them who had come to our little farm, but they ignored him, and they let free the pigs and the chickens and dispersed them that others might round them up later.
The one who led them wore a black sallet and black armor, and his face was pale underneath, and he looked like the image of Death himself.
Despite my father’s protests, this lieutenant’s countenance remained unbothered, while the other bearded ones made jokes at our expense. I don’t remember their words but they were crass, and they taunted my mother, but they soon departed.
It was all so quick, like a well-practiced troupe, each conducting their roles without error.
After the horsemen came the men on foot, and they came in greater number, like demons, taunting and laughing, rough shapes they were, laughing like devils and yapping like wolves, many of them with great and unruly beards and garish clothing under their black corselets.
They separated me and my father from my mother, bringing us out of the house and keeping my mother inside. In my memory they were barking like dogs and grunting like pigs, and they looked like men with boars’ heads, dark armor and brown leather and felt in ragged raiment, and they strode around and knocked things over, upturned our benches, knocked open our chests and pilfered the contents like unruly hogs.
I know now, with the benefit of experience and hindsight, what happened to my mother.
My father protested, but there were too many. They punched him with armored gloves and jabbed at his ribs with swords when he tried to stop them, and they mocked him relentlessly, and they treated him like a wild stallion, pricking his sides with the spurs of their daggers, and one of them, a fat one, jumped on him as if to ride him, laughing hysterically, but he threw him off, and the other men mocked their fallen comrade. My father was soon subdued and they pushed us down the road toward the village.
What I remember most about the brigands was their disgusting uncoutheness, their crude and brutish indulgence, their genuine delight in the sport of it all. I believe it was this that instilled in me forever a hatred of dissolute people, of crass jokesters and vulgar banterers. I spit now even thinking of them.
I was certainly wailing at this point, though I barely remember my own deeds, only these few images and impressions. All I know was that we were soon in the village, and the bell had long since been muted. Broken pews lay in a haphazard heap outside the chapel. Faces contorted in devilish smiles, like they were too wide by half, splitting faces from ear to ear, and the riotous laughter. I saw them pull barrels from the stores and don women’s jewellery, asking their companions to appraise them, and making light of the whole bloody affair.
I remember the chapel's door opening, and the crowded interior filled with crying women and children. We were pushed inside, and many of the children were wailing. The inside of the church was dark, only slivers of white light stealing in through the cracks between the wooden planks that had been nailed across the windows.
More were pressed in. Sometimes the door opened and new souls were thrust in, and it wasn’t long before of these was my mother, though I could not see her and only heard my father yell to her, but she did not answer, and she must have been ashamed, against all reason she must have been ashamed to look at my father. But I could not tell, and only remember the din and clamor as others shouted their protests and cried their laments and whispered their prayers to God.
Hammering. Hammering as the doors were barricaded, and soon panic and desperation overwhelmed everything, I remember the calloused hands of my father, rough from years of scything and tilling, holding me close, protecting me, as people panicked and jostled and pushed at each other, and many banged on the boarded windows and tried to pull them loose, but there was no space. We were packed in like apples in a sack and I could not see anything, only my father, and I could only feel like I was submerged in a sea of people.
Wisps of yellow smoke curled through the boarded window and crawled across the ceiling above me, gathering in the vault of the chapel, and then orange light was shining through the barricaded windows and limning my fathers face. It flickered like hellfire, licking the panes, then soon came a great whispering, a soughing of air through the walls, and then a roaring, a sucking in, like a beast from the depths gasping for air. I knew this was the place of punishment, and I thought perhaps I was already dead, and wished at that moment that neither Paradise nor Hell existed, and that eternity in the void would be preferable to any of this, and that I desired to be dead already and be gone from this nightmare.
The renewed, sobbing cries of desperation. Despairing laments, and then coughing as the choking foul and yellow smoke poured into the church in great thick volumes, seeping out of the walls, whitewash bubbling and melting. Everything was growing warmer, and hotter, and brighter, and yellow smoke choked everything, and it stung my eyes and my nose, and it smelled horrible, and I coughed and coughed.
I remember my father then, pulling me through the crowd, lifting me up, forcing his way through, elbowing through the people roughly, and it shames me to admit the violence with which he pushed through those desperate people, but he was possessed by his object and would not be stopped. I was dragged behind him, and soon we found my mother, but she was crying and did not want to embrace my father, but she pointed us to a door, and ushered us forward, and beseeched him to go through choking coughs. Then my father pushed further, and we came to the edge, a door. I know not how he did it, but I remember a cracking sound, as if a plank had been broken, or some mechanism smashed, and I was dragged further, and soon felt myself raised up, and realized my father had put me on a ladder, and I saw him covering his face and choking in the smoke. I remember the stinging in my eyes, and the tears.
He pushed me up the ladder with his shoulder, nudging me, and I climbed, almost blind, feeling each rung with my hands. Then there was light, and a breath, and I stuck my head out, and felt a reprieve from the choking and stinging. I looked out under the white sky, and breathed deep, but even the air was hot, and I drew my head back in, for there was fire all around the chapel. But wind was our savior, and brushed away the smoke, and gave me a space to breathe.
My father’s arms were still around me, and I clung to him.
When I looked down below, I saw a forest of pikes, and behind them grinning, bearded faces, excited, as we stood there wide-eyed like wild boars surrounded by hunters with their crossbows drawn.
“We're waiting for you, ha ha!” The mercenary taunted us, laughing cruelly. “Come down! The weather is nice here!”
This band of dirty warriors, black-harnessed, with ragged, paned clothing laughed boisterously, entertained by the predicament of us helpless people.
They taunted us, waving around their pikes, jabbing them mockingly at us, and beckoning us to come down. The fire was engulfing the walls of the church, and I felt the heat and saw a few eager tongues of flame licking up at my feet, and the thick grey smoke was pouring up through the roof of the church and escaping out of the window we stood behind. I looked down at the ladder and saw some unfortunate soul trying to follow us, but he was torporous and could not carry himself up, and my father kicked him back, worrying that we might be forced out of the window by the blind and desperate man, I imagine, and the man tumbled down the ladder back into the smoke. I could hear the screaming, wailing cries of pain from within, muffled though as behind cotton, but they were soon drowned out by the roar of the fire.
Just then, before my father could commit to action, a groaning sound came from behind us. The roof of the chapel sagged and creaked and cracked, and I felt the building shift under my feet. The fire was coming up the tower now, and licking at our heels, and I knew everyone within was gone, and I would never see my mother again. My father raised me up and forward and into the frame of the window.
“It must be hot up there, ha ha!” The mercenary laughed.
“Will you be brave enough then, to meet our pikes? Make your choice, dead man!”
The fire was burning at my back now, and I know my father must have been cooking. It was then that he grabbed me up in his arms, holding me close, and roared in frustration.
He leapt from the tower window. The men below raised their pikes in alarm and pointed them in unison at us, ready to spit us as we fell.
All I remember then was a blackness as I closed my eyes, and then the white sky, as my father, his back must have been to the pikes, let me go in flight.
I fell, and crashed hard into a tangle of men, hard helmets crushing my ribs and rough hands grabbing at me for purchase as I tumbled through them like so many branches on a tree, and then a crushingly hard and awkward landing on knees and feet and the hard ground that took my breath from me and left me with broken bones.
By some miracle I survived that fall.
My father was not so lucky. He was stuck through with pikes, at least one still transfixing him, and others having slashed and cut him as he fell, and he looked at me a last time. Even through that, through the fall and the spears of the devils, he still lived, and he refused to die until he saw that I had lived.
The men made sure to dispatch him then, and jabbed him many times with their little swords, and stomped on him until the light went from his eyes.
I pray that he rests in Paradise.
“Look! The child lives!” one of the brigands observed, his voice animated by genuine surprise.
“A lucky one!”
“God does not want him. He belongs here with us devils.”
“Take him to the tross!” their captain commanded. It was the man with the pale face.
The cruel laughter of the happy devils remained in my ears, and I was slung on the shoulder of a man, and he carried me away, his shoulder digging into me with each bouncing step.
I looked at my father, and though his eyes were blank, they turned openly to me, and that was the last time I saw my father, my mother, and my home.