“With the sword, weight & strength mean nothing. The wielder need only know when and where he must thrust his blade.”

Europe in the early 16th century is in a state of flux. The Ottoman Empire extends its long tendrils from east and south, the great Habsburg and the Valois dynasties vie against each other for dominion and across the continent a half dozen small wars are waged between cities and principalities. Barbary corsairs and the Italian states raid across the Mediterranean and across Europe the old order is being challenged. War is still the sport of kings and its fought for personal reasons, honour, vanity, even prestige.

The external threat is one thing, the taint goes much deeper. In the Schwarzwald its rumoured the dead walk, in Milan few dare to whisper of the depravities and rituals at their overlord's court. In Prague sedition and rebellion is plotted and all the while the shadow looms over them all.

Exiled from his homeland, Cathal O'Sullivan is a down on his luck mercenary soldier. Fleeing his homeland to stay one step ahead of the noose, he's languishing in the cells of the Schlossberg, wrongly accused of murder. He's penniless and seemingly alone in a strange land.

Jean Luc is a thief, correctly convicted of larceny, embezzlement, wanton burglary and a dozen other crimes. The excesses of the last few years have finally caught up with him and its either going to be slave labour or dancing the hempen jig. He's eager to talk.

Luis Castello is a disgraced duellist who's ignoble career has seen him the participant in illegal judicial killings as well as suspected of several murders. He's been content to live his life through the bottom of a bottle, making him the most ambivalent of the three.

And coming to them all is one man. Maximilian Ritter is an agent of the Inquisition. Empowered by the Church to actively seek out heresy and corruption, he is need of desperate men. In Freiburg, he's found them.

The clatter of a door slamming somewhere further into the bowels of the building jarred him into slow wakefulness. The steady dull thud of footsteps could be heard and he shifted slowly in a bid to get into a more comfortable position. He was stiff and sore, his back aching from where it had rested against the hard stone. Squinting, he screwed his eyes shut again but it was too late. The body once woken had a way of resisting dropping back off again.

Cathal O'Sullivan yawned and forced himself to stand up, eyes blinking in the dark. The clank of the chain attached to his leg brought him back to reality and he grimaced. Shivering a little in the cold, he let his eyes rove about the cell. They'd all gotten used to it by now, it didn't mean they had to like it. His two companions were silent though one was in his customary perch near the slit window. It brought in welcome air to clean out the fetid stench and occasionally the odd brief flash of sun to help dry out the perpetual damp present.

All things considered, they had one of the better cells. Not exactly something many would feel grateful for but when the screams and howls from below drifted up, it did put things in perspective. The man near the window muttered something, prompting a blank look from Cathal. He repeated himself, this time slower for his benefit. “I said it's day four” Jean observed cheerfully. He was the only one to bother keeping a counter. When queried as to why, he'd wryly observed that none of them had any idea how long they'd be incarcerated for.

They'd spoken in French, the only common language they all seemed to have. Cathal wasn't exactly fluent but there was no fear of being left out of the conversation. Not when their third companion rarely stirred from his reverie and joined in. A Spaniard they'd surmised. And while Cathal's Spanish might be more up to scratch than his French, it still hadn't helped them pry him out of his self-imposed silence. The man wanted to be alone, they left him alone.

“I wonder what it will be today” Jean mused as he closed his eyes, enjoying the relative freshness of the window. When they'd been forced to pick a corner of their cell for defecating, the smell had a way of accumulating. “Based on yesterday getting slop. And slop the day before that. And slop even before that, I'd wager it's slop” he concluded triumphantly.

Cathal managed the ghost of a grin, at least someone was still in high spirits. And laughs were few and far between in Freiburg. “You've been in prison before Jean” even before he said it, he wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question. The Frenchman gave a smirk and moved to begin scratching his daily mark on the cell wall. “And what pray tell me led you to that hypothesis?” he inquired, not looking around but there was a tinge of amusement to his tone.

“The marks” Cathal responded bluntly. Jean had the grace to wince and shifted a little, looking down at his free hand, turning it from side to side. “Yes they do have a marring the appearance somewhat” he murmured. Even in the half light of the cell, it was easy to see how his fingers were offset and crooked. “The third time they catch you, they like to just take the hand clean off so I've heard. After that it would have been to the Filles-Dieu for me and eking out my days panhandling.” A tightening of the mouth. “That or teaching squabbling brats how to pick a pocket and bearing my wounds as a lesson to not get caught. Not that it would do any good. It didn't for me”

The mood had darkened and they fell silent before Jean gave a quick bark of a laugh. “But of course things can always be worse. In Flanders I'd have been hung by now! I venture to say you perhaps might have seen that?” this time he turned to raise an eyebrow, flicking the questioning onto Cathal. The thief was shrewd and never one to let the topic linger on him for too long.

What harm. For all they knew, they could be on the gallows together by tomorrow. “What gave it away?” “Your accent isn't bad but it does grate on the ear a bit. Walloons, Normans, Picards, they all sound the same to me. It's not quite as pure as we speak down on the Seine.” he then jerked a thumb at their other sleeping companion. “And I heard you chance a word with yon conversationalist. No offense meant but you don't look like a Spaniard or a Frenchman. And the Army of Flanders seems to gather in half the vagabonds and bravos of Europe” Cathal gave a snort, a convicted thief commenting on the lack of high society in Imperial Spain's most northern contingent. “None taken” he responded, sitting himself down and unsuccessfully trying to get a better resting place against the stone.

 “You're not a German then, otherwise you might have known what that bastard of a gaoler was yelling yesterday” Jean pressed. “You're from one of the islands then?” a nod in answer. “What then?” came the persistent questioning. “Englishman? Irish? Scot? Welsh? I thought everyone got enough of fighting on your islands without coming here” Cathal rubbed at his eyes and let out a breath. “Irish” he said wearily. “Really? Is it true that before battle you paint yourselves blue?” a little thrown, Cathal sat back up in disbelief “What?! Where did you ever hear that?!” he demanded, mildly appalled.

 “Cease your prattling” came the growl from the corner. Their other cellmate had stirred. “Someone's coming”. He was already rising, slowly but with dignity. His jaw was set as he glared at the door. Jean and Cathal scrambled to their feet as quick as they could, the clink of chains restricting them as they struggled to stand.

 The footsteps halted outside their door and there was the rattle of keys followed by the lock clicking as the door was forced open. One of the Schlossberg's numerous gaolers stood there, his free hand resting on a shortsword as he peered into the chamber. “Aus! Los gehts!” he snapped. “He's telling us to move” Cathal translated needlessly. Jean rolled his eyes. “Allow me some credit friend” he murmured. The Spaniard was moving first, his haughty gaze above and beyond the guards, looking through them as if they weren't there.

 In the corridor, a half dozen more were standing. Four bore halberds and the ducal sigil of the town, a simple red cross on a white background. The other two were clad in black and wore no insignia. They studied the prisoners coolly, hands resting easily on the hilts of their swords.

 “Isn't it customary to get a trial first?” Cathal whispered to Jean but winced as the haft of a halberd rapped him sharply across the back of the legs. “Ruhe!” snapped the lead gaoler. He inspected their manacles briefly before stepping back. Cathal's mouth was dry, the initial fear of being tossed in the dungeon had faded with the monotony. His breathing was quickening, envisaging the gallows or the headsman waiting for them now. At the very least, it'd be in the open air. It'd be nice to get the sun on his face again. No matter how briefly. “Jetzt! Los!” came the command.

 Flanked by the guards, the trio began to shuffle awkwardly forward, to the chorus of rattling chains and slow marching. He risked one quick look back at their cell. Interesting how the stench didn't seem so bad now.

 The passageway was dimly lit by burning torches mounted in brackets, but the slow shuffling pace, that was all the prisoners could managed, stopped them from tripping up. Urged on by their guards, they began to climb the stairwell, a grim-looking gaoler at the top opening the door after peering through the spyhole.

The sudden influx of light made them all flinch a little. Cathal's hands came up to shield his face, eyes watering from the glare. "Raus!" came that barked order again and he stumbled forward, out into the courtyard. Blinking away the tears, he wiped his eyes and came to an abrupt halt.

"Los gehts!" snapped the lead gaoler. Cathal starred dumbly at the gallows erected at the other side of the courtyard. Another rap with the halberd haft had him shuffling forward again. Behind him Jean could only murmur "Mother of God" in shocked tones, the realization hitting home hard. 

Cathal felt like a rat in a trap, his eyes roved, searching for something, anything that could be his salvation. But the courtyard was empty save for a dozen observers and a platoon of the duke's halberdiers assigned to oversee the whole affair. He was manacled, hand and foot, any attempt at resistance would be pathetic. And even if he managed to injure a guard, they'd just ensure to draw out his death for the entertainment of his fellows. 

He shuffled forward numbly, mouth dry. He wanted a drink of water but what was the point? Craning his head upward, he let the sun kiss his face for a last time until they passed into the shadow of the wall. Other prisoners ahead of them were already mounting the scaffold. He automatically started counting but gave up after half a dozen, what was the point?

"I knew Germany was different but I didn't expect this" babbled Jean. Cathal ignored him as he began to slowly take the steps up the scaffold, a guard at either end of the steps to steady the prisoners as they began the climb. Just in case we fall and injure ourselves.

His legs felt unsteady and his stomach churned as he was hustled on to his assigned place. "Talk to me Irishman, I'm not dying alone!" Jean pleaded desperately. From further back came the calm tones of their Spanish cellmate. "It's going to be over soon, don't worry" he sounded fatally resigned to it. Reassured or not, Jean shut up.

Lined up along the scaffold, an official faced them and began reading from a tome, beginning in Latin before repeating in German, Cathal didn't even catch half of it. "Our sentence" came the Spaniard's voice again, there was a tinge of amusement there. A priest had begun his procession along the line, offering absolution and communion. Some took it in a frenzy, not wanting to let go the holy man until the guards pryed them off. Others turned their heads and didn't even look at him. 

Cathal took the blessing and the wafer. He was going to need all the help he could get in the next one. The Spaniard did not. Jean did but had started babbling again, confessing sins in a torrent of words. The priest simply blessed him and moved onto the next man in line, intoning his words with a ceremonial solemnity.

Behind him came the guards with the hoods. It went on first, then the noose went around your neck. They had it well practiced and Cathal tried to ignore them, though his legs felt like they were going to give way underneath him at any second. He looked up, the crows were already watching impassively. To his right, the Spaniard hawked and spat before letting the hood be put on.

Then it was Cathal's turn. It wasn't purpose made, it was just leftover from an old sack and it stank. He breathed in and nearly gagged. Worse still was the suffocating darkness in all around him. He could see nothing and sounds were muffled. Terror gripped him and it took a sizeable effort for him to stand straight and not give in. "Stand tall" came the low words of the Spaniard again. "Don't give them the satisfaction".

The priest's chanting was reaching it's crescendo and Cathal remembered enough of his Latin to remember the traditional blessing of the dead. As he fell silent, there was a pause for a second and then Cathal was falling.

His breath let out with the shock, he kicked in panic, trying to gain a last few mouthfuls of air, feeling the noose grip his neck tight and then he was falling again, hitting the floor hard. Wheezing, he took in grateful gasps as rough hands seized him, hauling him up and dragging him forward.

The hood was torn off and Cathal found himself staring at the gallows where the prisoners were kicking and twitching in their death throes. His gaze dropped and his head was gripped again, forcing him to look. "You'll look you bastard! And remember!" Some of the bodies had given up already and were limp, swaying gently on the rope whereas others still furiously struggled, their owners not wanting to give up life just yet. Cathal slumped in their grasp, still in shock. His own rope had been cut.

"Get up you swine" snarled another voice, the arms grabbing him again. Cold water was thrown on him and his head shot up. His throat still burned where the rough rope of the noose had gripped him. As he was forced into a walk, he realized he wasn't the only one spared the gallows jig. Other prisoners, maybe one in three were being hauled from the courtyard. He saw Jean and his heart rose, the Frenchman was being escorted along with the Spaniard. Most of the prisoners had to be flanked by guards, the survivors were pale and unsteady, more than one collapsed while walking.

"Irishman!" the thief declared, his eyes searching Cathal's face in concern. "I pissed myself" Cathal blurted out with a manic laugh, now he knew what the smell was. His legs went out from under him, he went limp in his captors grip as he mercifully fainted.