Kuisl laughed out loud. “Damn it, you really think you’re doing the right thing, don’t you?” he chuckled. “You’re so muddled you can’t see how removed you are from your Savior. You have one foot in hell and really believe you’re working for paradise.” Kuisl nodded grimly. “Your kind was always the worst type I had to string up-those who believed to the end that they were just doing good.”
“I don’t give a damn what you think, hangman,” the prior shouted. “We’ve almost reached our goal. I waited a long time to be named abbot. Everything seemed to be going my way, and then they sent Rambeck from Salzburg University back to the monastery. What a scandal. But under my leadership this monastery will shine again in renewed splendor. And now, Eckhart, grab that woman and-”
Suddenly Kuisl lunged forward, striking the cellarer on the shoulder. The monk grunted with surprise, staggered back, and tipped over a table, spilling glass stones and little bones onto the ground.
“Eckhart, grab him,” the librarian shouted. “He mustn’t escape.”
As the black-robed monk regained his balance, a strange fire gleamed in his eyes, as if the blow he’d received had awakened in him long-forgotten memories of bar-house brawls and beatings. Magdalena sensed his life before taking on the Benedictine order must have been distinctly unchristian. With his bald head, bullish neck, and flabby but muscular upper arms, he looked more like a waterfront thug than a monk. Growling, he charged Kuisl, who deftly stepped aside. Nevertheless Eckhart landed a passing blow, and Magdalena watched in horror as her father stumbled. Kuisl was just able to grab one of the crates to steady himself.
He’s really starting to show his age, she thought. Only a few years ago he would have wiped up the floor of the keep with the fat monk.
As if divining her thoughts, Kuisl rose up defiantly, seized his cudgel, and approached the cellarer like an angry bull.
“Say your prayers, brother,” he growled. “You won’t have to flagellate yourself any more for your sins. I’ll take care of that now.”
With hateful little eyes, Brother Eckhart gazed at Kuisl and groped for something on a table behind him. With his huge hands, he finally seized a golden crucifix which he held up before him.
“Even if you’re not a golem, you come straight from hell,” he hissed. “Vade, Satanas, vade! Die, you devil!”
With a scream the monk swung the cross, aiming for the top of Kuisl’s head, but at the last moment Kuisl dodged, raised his cudgel, and brought it down with full force on Eckhart’s skull.
The monk collapsed like an ox struck between the eyes by a bolt from a crossbow. Blood trickled across the dirty floor of the keep as Brother Eckhart twitched one final time, then passed away. The hangman wiped sweat from his forehead.
“You can be glad it’s over for you, little monk,” he gasped. “The punishment for counterfeiting relics is a much more painful death.”
Magdalena, who had been watching the fight from behind one of the crates, was about to rush out to help her father when she was grabbed by the neck from behind and felt something sharp and cold press against her right temple.
“Drop the club right now, hangman,” the prior hissed. He’d snuck down the stairway and was now holding the cool barrel of the pistol against Magdalena’s head. “Or your daughter will roast in hell even before you.”
Kuisl turned toward his daughter, and when he saw the weapon in the prior’s hand, he immediately lowered his cudgel. Magdalena could now see fear in her father’s eyes.
He had trouble concealing his anger. “Listen, monk,” he began, “I don’t care what you do with me-I’ve lived a full life-but keep my daughter out of this.”
“Run with the dogs, die with the dogs,” Brother Benedikt jeered as he stepped out from behind the prior, looking like a hungry old crow. He glanced down at the dead Eckhart. “That fat rapist is no great loss,” he hissed. “He was evil and sick, but we needed him to move the heavy crates. Just as we needed Laurentius. The novitiate master, with his delicate fingers, was the only one who could make convincing counterfeits out of stone and metal.” Benedikt sighed. “A real artist. It’s a shame we lost him.”
“Such a hypocrite,” Magdalena snapped as the prior pressed the mouth of the pistol so hard against her temple that a small trickle of blood ran down her cheek. She continued, undeterred. “You probably killed Laurentius yourself because he was afraid and was about to betray you.”
“You’re wrong, girl,” Brother Benedikt replied coolly. “We ourselves don’t know who did that to the good fellow.” He pointed at the hole in the floor. “There’s something lurking around down there. We covered the opening with the stone slab, but you removed it. So tell me. You came from down there. What did you see?”
“We didn’t find a golem or a sorcerer,” the hangman interrupted in his deep bass voice. “We were just looking for my grandchildren.”
“Your… grandchildren?” The librarian paused briefly then started cackling like a chicken. “Ha! Don’t tell me all this is happening just because the dumb girl’s brats ran away on her.”
“The sorcerer abducted them, you old fool,” Magdalena shouted as angry tears ran down her face. “If none of you is the sorcerer, who is? Speak up! Who knows what this madman is doing with my children?”
But Brother Benedikt just continued laughing, his scornful, hysterical cackle echoing loudly through the cellar of the keep. Finally, he stopped and wiped his face. “That’s so funny,” he replied, breathlessly. “You really believe that one of us is the sorcerer-and all this time, we thought it was one of you. And while we stand here beating up on each other, the real sorcerer goes happily about his business. That’s just precious.”
Magdalena hesitated. It didn’t seem Brother Benedikt was just trying to fool her. “And… and you have nothing to do with the hosts that were stolen and have now reappeared?” she asked uncertainly.
“God, no!” The librarian shrugged. “Why should we be interested in a few old wafers? They can’t be melted down. But in one regard, I must disappoint you-the hosts still haven’t reappeared. The monstrance that the unfortunate Laurentius brought with him from the forest was empty.”
“Just as I thought,” Kuisl cursed. “The sorcerer had already removed the hosts. What in God’s name does he want with them?”
“That, my good fellow, is something you’ll never learn,” Prior Jeremias hissed, pointing the flintlock pistol directly into Kuisl’s face. “You’re right. There’s only one bullet in the gun, but after we’ve taken care of you, we’ll deal with your daughter. Strange, isn’t it, that this is all starting to really amuse me.” In a flash, he picked up a stiletto from one of the tables and held it to Magdalena’s throat. “Perhaps we’ll take a little time with the girl, but you’re on your way to hell now, hangman. Farewell.”
As the pistol clicked, Kuisl dodged to one side, but the fatal shot never came.
Horrified, the Andechs prior stared at a crossbow bolt protruding from his upper right arm. His fingers went limp, and the pistol clattered to the ground. The face of the old librarian beside him turned white, and his eyes were glued to the top of the stairway leading to the exit above.
“Don’t kill her. I want her alive.”
Turning, Magdalena saw four unfamiliar soldiers in uniforms at the top of the staircase. Their leather cuirasses were emblazoned with a coat of arms depicting a golden lion in a black field. Two of the men aimed crossbows at the two Benedictines.
Between the soldiers stood Count Leopold von Wartenberg. “Behold! We’ve finally found the nest of the relics thieves,” he said coldly. “The executioner in Weilheim can really look forward to a good year. Two little execution pyres won’t suffice for this dreadful crime.”