The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,103

the cicadas, singing their monotonous lullaby. Salome had retreated into the wagon, and Mustafa brought her some water. Johann longed to be alone in the wagon with her. But she’d been cold toward him for days now. Things between them usually went like this: at night she loved him and dug her fingernails into his sweat-covered back, and during the day she completely ignored him. Johann had no idea why. She’ll drive me insane, he thought. Each climax seemed to drain him a little more, as if she sucked the blood from his veins—and yet he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

While they passed through a shady ravine one afternoon, Johann heard a conspicuous whirring noise. In the next moment, a crossbow bolt struck the side of the wagon, quickly followed by a second. Johann and Peter dived headfirst off the box seat and, together with Archibaldus and Emilio, sought shelter behind the wagon. They could hear shouts in a foreign language—French, Johann thought. Moments later, half a dozen mercenaries in colorful slashed trousers and rusty cuirasses emerged from the bushes. Two of them were armed with crossbows, while the rest slowly walked toward the troupe with drawn swords. Johann could tell by the look in the soldiers’ eyes that they’d show no mercy.

“La fille,” growled the front-most mercenary, a tall, bearded man with a poorly healed scar on his face. “Donne-moi la fille!” He gestured toward Salome, who was peering out from behind the wagon canvas. Two of the men slowly stepped toward Emilio and Archibaldus, raising their swords with smirks on their faces. Clearly, they didn’t expect much of a fight.

Johann frantically tried to figure out what to do. Defend Salome and die? He had no weapons other than Tonio’s knife. Peter owned a rusty short sword, and Emilio and Mustafa were tough opponents in a pub brawl, but they didn’t stand a chance against half a dozen trained French mercenaries. Should he try to run away? He shot a glance at the thorny bushes by the wayside. They were just a few steps from him, but even a few steps was too far with a crossbow pointed at you. And he couldn’t abandon Salome.

Meanwhile, two of the mercenaries had dragged the screaming Salome out of the wagon. She thrashed about wildly, but to no avail. The men were already tearing off her clothes, laughing as they groped her naked breasts. The rest of the troupe was herded together like a flock of chickens waiting to be slaughtered.

Salome was lying on the road with her legs spread apart, held down by two struggling soldiers. One of the mercenaries opened his fly, knelt down, and gave his comrades a triumphant look.

“C’est moi le premier,” he said, rubbing his hard penis. “Et ensuite—”

A rumble went through the wagon as if a volcano were erupting inside. The next moment, Mustafa lunged down from the box seat, holding one of the chains he used during his performances. He roared as he swung the chain wildly above his head. It was the first sound Johann had ever heard from the dark giant. His roar sounded like that of an angry bear. The chain hissed like a snake and struck the face of the soldier kneeling in front of Salome, turning it into a bloody mess. Screaming with pain, the man fell to his side, his trousers slipping down to his knees. Mustafa swung the chain and it wrapped itself around the neck of the next man. The soldier turned red in the face, then Mustafa jerked the chain and there was a cracking sound. The man’s legs gave way and he fell to the ground with a broken neck.

Everything had happened so fast that none of the remaining four soldiers had had time to react. But now they came to their senses.

“En garde!” shouted the leader, running toward Mustafa, who was standing with his back to the soldier.

When the man ran past, Johann threw his knife.

He did it with the exact same movement he’d practiced time and time again over the last few days and weeks, his face twisted into a grimace of determination and hatred. When the blade left his fingers, he felt an enormous sense of relief, as if something inside him let go. For the briefest moment, the face of the mercenary leader turned into Tonio’s grinning visage.

Then the knife entered the soldier’s left eye with a smacking noise. The man kept running for another yard or two, as if