The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,104

he hadn’t noticed his own death, and then he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Mustafa turned around and gave Johann a nod as the giant bent down to pick up the dead man’s sword. A crossbow bolt struck Mustafa’s left upper arm, but he didn’t even seem to react. He hurled himself at the next opponent with a dull cry. The man raised his weapon, gasping with fear, but Mustafa shoved the blade aside as if it were a twig and buried his own sword in the crook of the soldier’s neck. A fountain of blood spurted from the wound and onto the dusty road.

The two remaining men didn’t linger for long when they saw their comrades lying dead in the dirt. They threw down their crossbow and sword and turned to run. But Mustafa wasn’t finished. He went after the men, grabbed the slower one by the collar, and yanked him back like a rag doll. Then he pummeled the mercenary’s face with his fists until it was nothing but bloody pulp. When Mustafa finally let go of him, the man groaned, gave one last twitch, and died. The last mercenary got away through the bushes.

The man whose face Mustafa had demolished with the chain was still screaming. “Mon visage, mon visage!” he moaned over and over, rolling around on the ground. “Je suis aveugle, je ne vois rien! O Vierge Sainte!”

Mustafa walked over to him and slit his throat with one swift movement.

A heavy silence descended over the ravine. Blowflies found the dead bodies and landed in the gaping wounds. Among the corpses sat Salome, her dress torn, almost naked, staring straight ahead. She was trembling, but she held her head high like a proud queen of death. Eventually she stood up, leaned over the man with the slit throat, and spat in his bloodied face.

Mustafa pulled the bolt from his upper arm as if removing a splinter, and then he gently wrapped a blanket around his sister’s shoulders. Johann thought about what Emilio had told him a few weeks ago. Apparently Mustafa had tried to defend Salome in faraway Alexandria, whereupon their master had cut out his tongue. No wonder Mustafa wasn’t going to stand by and watch while someone tried to rape his sister again. He’d rather die—or kill.

Peter was the first to speak after a long silence. “That . . . that was damned close,” he said. “Thanks, Mustafa.”

Mustafa didn’t deign to look at him but continued to care for Salome. Johann walked over to the body of the lead mercenary and pulled his knife from the man’s eye. The blade was sticky and bloody, and the man’s other eye seemed to stare at him reproachfully. It was the first time Johann had killed somebody. It had been so easy.

And if he was being honest with himself, he’d even enjoyed it.

The desire for vengeance and retribution had flowed through his veins like sweet poison, just like the time in Knittlingen when he’d met Tonio and wished for the death of Margarethe’s brother. He remembered Tonio’s words.

Hatred can be very healing, purging the soul like fire.

Tonio had been right. Hatred was as sweet and delicious as freshly baked honey cake. The anger that had been stewing inside Johann for so long was wiped away, and all that remained was a pleasant emptiness.

“We should get away from here,” Archibaldus said warningly and brushed the dust off his frock. He was trembling, in dire need of a swig of wine. “One of them got away. We don’t know if he went to fetch reinforcements.”

“You’re right, old pisshead,” replied Peter. “Let’s get going.” His eyes turned to Mustafa again. Then he grinned. “I swear, that was the quickest fight I’ve seen in my life! You truly are—” Suddenly Peter grimaced with pain and he clutched his hands to his stomach.

“What is it?” asked Emilio. “Are you hurt?”

Peter shook his head with clenched teeth. “It’s . . . nothing. Probably just an upset stomach. It’s been paining me for a few days now. Perhaps the water from one of the wells I’ve been drinking from was foul.” He gave a strained laugh and gestured at the corpses around them. “By Christ, I could be lying there getting eaten by flies, so I’m sure I can put up with a bit of stomach pain. Let’s go before more of those French bastards turn up.”

Peter climbed onto the box seat with much difficulty, and Johann noticed that he continued