Chapter 41 #2
Stefan nodded. “So you have found me. But what’s the urgency here—”
“The prisoner, sir…Count Althann,” the captain interrupted, straightening. “He is asking for you, Commander. He says…he will speak to no one…but you.”
Stefan’s expression hardened. What could the traitor possibly have to say to him? Then he shrugged. He only hoped it was useful information.
He nodded. “Lead on, man.” They set off through the fog, the shorter man fighting to keep up with Stefan’s longer strides. When they reached the prison tent, the guards quickly lowered their muskets and stepped aside, allowing them entrance.
It took a moment for Stefan’s eyes to adjust to the dark interior, lit only by scattered oil lamps.
Unkempt soldiers were shackled to their cots, a row along each wall, deserters, thieves, ruffians, the lowest dregs of any army.
The air was stuffy, smelling of human waste and sweat.
The war prisoners were kept off by themselves in an adjoining tent.
The morale in this place was low enough already without having to listen to a man’s agonizing screams during torture.
Stefan passed quickly through the main tent, looking neither left nor right, then through a wide fenced area and into a smaller tent.
He stopped short, his eyes widening as his gaze shifted from the Turkish guard, lashed and hanging limply from a wooden post, to an outstretched form bound hand and foot, and lying on a blood-soaked cot.
He moved closer, his lips tightened into a grim line. It was not a pretty sight.
Frederick’s naked body was streaked with blood and dank sweat, his face black and blue, his eyes swollen shut.
His fingers and toes had been mutilated, and scorch marks crisscrossed his chest where a hot brand had seared into his flesh.
His left leg had been broken, and twisted cruelly beneath him, shattered white bone breaking through his thigh.
Stefan fought back a wave of unexpected nausea.
He had seen far worse on the battlefield time and time again, but there was something about this man that struck him to the core.
His body had been reduced to ruin, yet he lay there with a quivering defiance Stefan had seen in few others, friend or foe.
“He has refused to say anything for two hours,” the captain blurted, standing at his side.
He had regained his breath, an incredulous look upon his swarthy face.
“He grinds his teeth, screams, moans, cries out for God, but other than that, says nothing…even through this.” He shook his head, perplexed.
“Just when I begin to think he will take any information he possesses to his grave, all of a sudden he asks for you, Commander.”
Stefan drew closer to the cot, studying the once handsome face. Frederick’s breathing was very shallow, and it appeared he had lost consciousness.
The captain seemed to have the same thought. With a callousness born of practice, he grabbed a bucket of cold water near the cot and threw it in the prisoner’s face.
Frederick gasped, his body jerking spasmodically. His eyelids were so swollen and puffy, he could not open them. He turned his head, his lips cracked and bloodied, his rasping voice barely above a whisper.
“H-has he come? Count von…Furstenberg. Has he come?”
Stefan knelt on one knee next to the cot, the captain hovering over his shoulder. He glanced up, annoyed. “I can assure you, Captain, if the prisoner says anything of importance, you will soon know it. For now, stand back.”
The captain’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly complied by retreating to the entrance to the tent.
Stefan turned once again to Frederick. “I am here, Count Althann,” he murmured. “The captain says you want to speak with me.”
“Kassandra…” Frederick moaned. “Kassandra…”
Stefan blanched. For a moment he said nothing…could say nothing. His eyes bored into Frederick, the same unsettling chill he had felt earlier racing through his body.
What rantings were these? Had the man gone mad from the pain, his mind dredging up memories from the past as his life streaked before him? Why, Frederick had not seen Kassandra since…since Prince Eugene’s gala. Had he been summoned only for these lunatic mutterings?
“Kassandra,” Frederick repeated, his voice cracking and breaking, yet stronger this time.
Stefan reached out and gripped his shoulder, regretting his action when Frederick groaned hideously. He drew back, restraining himself, not knowing what to do, feeling as if he were the one going mad.
“Why do you say her name?” he asked, his breath jagged, his face taut and drawn. “Why?”
“First…you must promise me.”
Stefan started. “Promise you…promise you what?”
Frederick tried to lean forward, struggling against his bonds, but he fell back, the wasted effort clearly shattering his body with wrenching pain.
“Promise me…I will…die swiftly. N-not…impalement. Please…promise me, Stefan,” he whispered, tears oozing through his swollen eyelids and streaking down his ashen face. “S-swear it.”
Stefan swallowed hard. He was certain this condemned man knew something about Kassandra—and he was bargaining, even now!
He nodded quickly, his throat constricted, then remembered Frederick could not see his assent.
“Yes, I swear it,” he agreed. “I swear, on my life. Now tell me. What do you know of Kassandra?”
Frederick turned toward the tented ceiling, a great shuddering sigh expelling from his body.
“She lives,” he murmured simply. “She lives.”
Stefan’s heart stopped. God in heaven, what was this man saying? Kassandra was alive? He leaned closer to Frederick’s ear, his voice a desperate plea.
“Where?”
Frederick’s parched lips began to move rapidly, whispered words spilling forth in rasping succession, punctuated by moans, sighs, curses, as he spun the sordid tale of treachery, deceit, and murder. Stefan listened silently, wracked by tumultuous emotions, one woman’s name searing into his mind.
Sophia. You have done this to me, to Kassandra. Sophia…
When Frederick could speak no more, his face twisted in agony, tears spilling down his cheeks, trailing through blood and sweat, Stefan laid his hand upon the tortured brow and stroked it gently, his hand shaking.
They remained so for a long time, until Stefan at last rose to his feet, swaying ever so slightly.
“You…have sworn,” Frederick gasped, sensing his movement.
“I have sworn,” Stefan murmured. “Your death shall be swift, Count Frederick Althann.” He turned from the cot, the captain rushing over to him at once.
“What did he say?”
“Torture him no further,” Stefan ordered as he strode toward the entrance. “And cut that other man down.”
“But, Commander, I have my orders,” the captain blurted. “Until they give me information—”
“The information has been given to me,” Stefan shouted, his gray eyes ablaze as he wheeled sharply.
“You will receive like orders from Prince Eugene within the quarter hour. Now, see that the prisoners are bathed. Make their last hours as comfortable as possible. Give them brandy to dull the pain, and warm broth. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Commander.” The captain nodded, shrinking back from this outburst.
Stefan did not stop until he passed through the guarded entrance, drawing in great breaths of air as if he himself had just been released from prison. He set off toward Prince Eugene’s tent, Frederick’s words roiling in his mind.
Kassandra was alive! It was just as he had believed since the day she disappeared, just as his instincts had told him!
And she was here, had been here, for weeks…
so close, so close. Yet his incredible happiness was tempered by abject despair, the two emotions crashing together, leaving only the harsh light of cold reality.
Kassandra was in the hands of Halil Pasha, had been given to him as a gift that very night. God help her! It was not so much that she could be in the Grand Vizier’s arms at that very moment, but that she faced certain death in the morning if Prince Eugene won the battle, as he must!
A ragged sigh tore from Stefan’s throat as he recalled the previous summer’s campaign, the decisive victory at Peterwardein, Hungary. He and his soldiers had been among the first to enter the slain Grand Vizier’s tent after the battle.
They were greeted by a gruesome sight, a sight that haunted him still.
The women in the harem had been brutally murdered for fear they would fall into the hands of the infidels.
He had never seen such a slaughter of innocents…
They had been beheaded or strangled, their silk-clad bodies lying where they had fallen in pools of blood.
Stefan broke into a run, his lungs burning with exertion.
Somehow Prince Eugene must position the cavalry so that the attack against the Ottoman lines would not only be swift and deadly, but also so that he might make it to the Grand Vizier’s tent in time to stop the senseless massacre. It was Kassandra’s only chance…