The Hellish Fähnlein

I forced myself to focus on my task and pushed deeper into the camp, searching for the red tents of my Fähnlein.

Night had fallen, and the tents were little more than dark shapes in the gloom.

Yet the morbid stillness of the place, so unlike the rowdy life of the other encampments, left no doubt I had found it.

The men spoke little.

Whatever they did, sharpening weapons, tending their gear, or warming themselves by the fire, they did it in a kind of solemn silence.

I approached a Landsknecht, seated by the fire, staring into the flames.

“Good evening,” I said. “Am I right in thinking this is van Arens’ Fähnlein?”

The man looked up with mild curiosity.

“Aye. You might call us that,” he said. “Though most name us 'The Dead Fähnlein'. Or 'The Hellish Fähnlein'.”

“And who calls you so?” I asked.

“Any man with sense. Or do you believe there is a living soul in this city who knows not what awaits us?”

“You mean your task. The expedition into the western quarter...”

“Expedition?” He snorted. “Most would call it stark madness. Two days ago our regiment was twice this size. Since then, the number of the dead has near tripled. And we are to march in there with scarcely a hundred men?”

He spoke of our impending doom with perfect indifference.

Judging by the others’ faces, they shared his certainty.

“If death is certain, why step forward at all?” I asked.

A thin smile crept across his face.

“Why ask me? You are here for the same reason, else Wulfgard would not have taken you.”

What was he talking about? Wulfgard?

He leaned closer. “You’ve lost all, have you not? As have we.”

He mistook me, yet I let him speak.

“I lost everything. Wife, child, kin. All torn from me. As were every man’s here.” His voice thickened with fervour. “And now their empty shells wander damned through the streets, God’s punishment upon this city.”

His gaze burned.

“But hear this: if we tear down the barricades and let the plague of the dead sweep through the rest of Stratweiler, if we deliver all to God’s fire, He shall take us into His grace. So long as life clings to these streets, His anger will not pass.”

My breath caught.

“You… you intend to let the dead in?” I whispered.

He nodded, almost eagerly.

“We march not to fight them. We march to free them. Once the barriers fall, this city dies as one, and with it our sins. That is the road to Heaven, friend. The only road left.”

My stomach turned to ice.

“But the mission... the dovecote...”

“The dovecote?” He laughed bitterly. “A feeble lie for the naive. A tale told so none flee before judgment is wrought. There is no salvation in reaching that dovecote. There is only the end.”

The others had fallen silent around us, listening.

I forced my voice steady.

“...You mean to kill every living soul in the city?”

The man’s expression shifted.

For the first time he truly looked at me, longer, sharper, his eyes narrowing as though weighing each word.

“Aye,” he said slowly. “As God wills it. And we with them.”

He paused. “But why ask you this? You should know this as well as any man here.”

A prickle of cold ran down my spine.

Before I could frame an answer, suspicion darkened his face.

“You do know, do you not?” he asked quietly. “Wulfgard gave you the sign?”

I opened my mouth, too slowly.

His breath caught.

His gaze hardened.

And in an instant he understood.

“You are no brother of ours,” he hissed.

Panic burst through me.

“You are mad!” I shouted. “You will damn us all! I must warn the Hauptmann. Where is he? Where is van Arens?”

At once the zealot grasped his mistake, as mine aswell.

I was not the man he had expected.

And I was even about to betray their sacred pact.

He rose, and the others rose with him.

Before I could take a step, hands seized me and soon a sack was thrown over my head.

I cried out, but a fist met my ribs, another my stomach.

The camp noises faded as they dragged me away, somewhere dark, somewhere quiet, somewhere meant for killing, that I was sure of.

When they tore the sack from my head, a blow knocked me to the ground.

Blood filled my mouth, mingling with the sour taste of beer and half-digested mutton.

As I let my gaze wander, I realized we stood on a rise near the eastern outskirts, beneath the path leading up to the old castle.

The wind howled as the camp’s lights glimmered faintly below.

Four men surrounded me: the zealot I had talked with, two more holding me, another one striking me when he pleased.

“That is enough,” the zealot said at last, and the blows ceased.

He looked down at me with something like pity.

“I am truly sorry,” he said with sincerity in his voice.

“Had I known you were not one of us, I would have held my tongue. But now you stand in the way of God’s work.”

He drew a slow breath, as though pleading his case before heaven itself.

“Understand this: we seek no man’s blood. It is not for our hands to judge. The dead shall cleanse the city, as God wills it, and we with it. That is the holy path.”

His expression tightened.

“But you would hinder that path. You would warn Hauptmann van Arens, raise alarm, tear down the work the Lord has set before us. And if I let you live, you would damn us all, and yourself besides.”

He lowered his gaze briefly, almost in prayer.

“It is a sin to strike you down, aye… but to permit you to thwart God’s judgment would be a greater sin still. He shall forgive the lesser for the sake of the greater.”

He looked up again, eyes bright with conviction.

“And when the city is freed, He shall cleanse this blood from my soul.”

I gasped, fighting for breath.

“You… need not… do this,” I choked. “We… can still live… There must be another way!”

He took one of the crossbows, loaded a bolt, and levelled it at my chest.

Still I did not yield.

“Listen… we could… stand together,” I rasped. “Reach the dovecote. Find a way to end this curse. That is God’s true will... not slaughter!”

For a heartbeat, he hesitated.

“Trust me,” I whispered. “We can make it right.”

He lowered the crossbow.

A spark of hope raised inside me.

But then he raised it again.

“Salvation lies only... in death.”

A shot went off.

Warm blood spilled down my coat.

A second shot.

A third.

Then, a deafening crack split the night.

A pistol-shot.

A cry.

Another.

Then silence swallowed all.