Grimm - The Icy Touch (2 page)

“It is very well, we shall march, slowly and peacefully, back to Paris.” The Emperor bent to pluck a violet, and held the flower up to admire it in the morning sun. “How early they are blooming, even for Antibes. Another good omen.”

“You are still determined to walk through France defended only by posies and a merry smile, my Emperor?” Denswoz asked, as he dismounted and gave his bow. He spoke in a silky, gently facetious way that removed the sting from his acerbity.

“We will be armed, Monsieur Denswoz,” Napoleon replied, shrugging. “But we will not seek to use the weapons.”

“The Bourbons may suffer your return, my Emperor. But the allies will not.”

“We shall sue for peace, and if it is refused us, we will fight,” Napoleon replied. “Now, let us examine our route, General Drouet...”

* * *

It seemed to Kessler that Napoleon Bonaparte’s confidence waxed and waned by the hour. An unusual penchant for superstition had settled on the Emperor—the normally rational Bonaparte was giving credence to omens, and Kessler had noticed him repeatedly fingering those curious coins. And yes, he had confirmed—they were the Coins of Zakynthos.

Johann Kessler had seen the coins up close, for a few moments, on the wood and brass folding table in the Emperor’s tent, at the second camp after a long day’s march. The Emperor had stepped over to a chest, to obtain another map, and Kessler had seized the chance to examine the gold coins. They were identical, and without a doubt the same ones depicted in the grimoire. The old book on ancient mysteries asserted that they’d been minted in the eighth century on the Greek island of Zakynthos. On one side of each coin was a swastika—in ancient times, a symbol of good luck in the Far East—on the other was the Nemean Lion. Kessler felt a mild stinging sensation when he touched the coins, as if sensing the legend that reverberated around them: they were said to convey to the bearer a mystical power over men, imparting inspiration, charisma, and an almost divine glow. But the gold of the coins was also said to be somehow poisoned. And the bearer’s powers corroded, over long use, charisma decaying to become madness and despair.

Still, if the legend were true, then Napoleon might use the coins to retake power; they might give him an infallible command that could break the back of the allies. And as Kessler was the agent of the Archduke Charles, he was obliged to head Napoleon Bonaparte off. If the coins were genuine, he must take them. They should not be in the hands of men like Denswoz—or Napoleon.

But he had to put them down when Bonaparte turned back to him.

“Curious coins,” Kessler remarked, to see how Napoleon would react. “Greek, I believe?”

“Yes,” said the Emperor snappishly, quickly scooping the coins up. “Greek.”

* * *

Just outside Lyons, in a rainy dusk, they were confronted by an army of 6,000 men. This opposing force was tasked to disperse the Emperor’s army—or destroy it.

A royalist officer stood before Napoleon, towering over the smaller man yet trembling in fear, as he awaited Napoleon’s answer. Everyone watched the Emperor; everyone waited.

Standing a few paces to Napoleon’s right, Kessler expected that the Emperor would first order his men to withdraw, then redeploy them for attack. But Napoleon hesitated, scanning the opposing troops, reading the eyes of the men who looked back at him. He seemed to waver...

He glanced back at the force he had with him. They were badly outnumbered. But his brave men had their weapons pointed toward the royalist forces. He murmured an order to Colonel Mallet.

“Tell the men to lower their weapons.”

Then Denswoz stepped up and whispered something in Napoleon’s ear.

The Emperor nodded, reached into his right-hand overcoat pocket, and drew out the Coins of Zakynthos. He did it almost absentmindedly, as if wanting something to clink in his hand as he thought the matter over. But the instant he clasped the coins he began to change. The change was subtle, but clear to Kessler, who was sensitive to the influence of the miraculous.

Napoleon seemed to swell, just a trifle, when he grasped the coins. He stood straighter, and his sunken eyes suddenly seemed brighter. He lifted his head, and when he spoke to the assemblage—to every man there—his voice boomed out with the echoing power of a cannon discharge. And it seemed to Kessler that waves of energy pulsed out from Napoleon—energies invisible to ordinary men...

“I see many faces I know, of men who fought beside me, before!” Napoleon called out. “I see the faces of brave men who drove the English back from our borders!” He paused dramatically, then, with a flourish, opened his coat, baring his weskit. “If any man here would shoot his Emperor—
shoot him now
!”

The opposing troops stared.

Then one of the soldiers reached up and tore the white plume of the House of Bourbon from his hat and threw it down. He reached into his coat, and drew out the old, soiled tricolor of Napoleon, and inserted it into his hat.

A cheer went up, and other men flung down the plume of the Bourbons. First a few—and then hundreds, thousands.

The men roared
“Vive l’Emperor!”
And the 6,000 soldiers who had opposed him became part of Napoleon’s army.

Kessler looked at Alberle Denswoz—and saw something that he alone could see, of the thousands of men here: Denswoz’s face transforming, becoming the furred, savage, snouted visage of a Hundjager; the muzzle of a vicious feral dog. It seemed to snarl in brutal triumph...

Kessler looked quickly away, and was careful to add his cheers to the huzzahs of the soldiers, as Napoleon waved his hat to them, glorying in their loyalty.

* * *

June 18, 1815. Waterloo—the
morne plaine
—in the United Kingdom of the Netherlands.

The ground was softened by rain, but it had cleared up that morning, and near midday Napoleon Bonaparte judged that the battlefield was firm enough. He ordered the
grande batterie
of cannons be fired at the ranks of British soldiers, led by the Duke of Wellington, and followed up with a frontal assault in a tight, relentless column. Kessler watched in horror as the army of the Republic charged down onto the plains from the ridge to the south, attacking Wellington’s position head-on.

Wellington’s dense ranks of musketry played havoc with the Napoleonic forces. Men fell by the score, dead or dying, torn to pieces by chain shot and musket balls, cavalry horses screaming as shrapnel tore into them. Smoke billowed over the battlefield, carrying the reek of gunpowder, followed by the distinct smell of blood—a great deal of blood.

Kessler looked at the fallen French soldiers through his small brass telescope; saw them lying across one another, a few twitching and groaning, blue coats staining red. Strange to think each fallen man had been born, had lived a life of hopes and plans, only to end here, breathing his last in this muddy battlefield...

Standing near Napoleon now, Kessler lowered the telescope and turned to see the Emperor once again clasping the Coins of Zakynthos, clicking them together like a gambler flipping chips between his fingers as he gazed broodingly out over the field of battle. He’d had the coins constantly within reach since the day Denswoz had urged them upon him outside Lyons. But in Kessler’s view, their effect on Napoleon was increasingly dismaying. The great man seemed to be gradually wilting, becoming sickly, complaining of kidney afflictions and malaise. He rarely sat on his horse, and appeared to have difficulty seeing the battlefield clearly

As Kessler watched, Napoleon seemed to become aware of his scrutiny. The Emperor put the coins back in his coat. But they were never far away from him.

The coins have turned against him, just as the legend warned
, Kessler thought. Still, their effectiveness in ensuring the loyalty of his soldiers was undiminished. If Napoleon continued to hold the coins, he might well win this battle. And if Napoleon won the battle, it would only bring more war and chaos on Europe.

Napoleon.
Kessler felt some anguish, thinking about Napoleon’s undoubted civilizing influence on the world. The great man’s dreams of a rational, enlightened empire sometimes seemed the best course for Western civilization. But Kessler’s loyalty was to Germany, and the Archduke Charles. And Napoleon had subjugated much of Germany And yet—Kessler regarded Napoleon as his friend.

In many ways he felt it would be doing his friend a service, in the long run, if he could get the coins away from him. Once he’d lost the Coins of Zakynthos, Napoleon might lose heart. He had become dependent on them. Without them, he would likely lose the battle—a defeat that Kessler’s employer desired—and perhaps Napoleon would be saved from the madness and physical deterioration contact with the coins would inevitably bring.

Napoleon took off his overcoat as the afternoon grew warmer. Kessler waited his chance... and when Denswoz had gone to get them some water, Kessler stepped up beside Napoleon as if joining the Emperor in examining the maps. With his left hand Kessler reached into the coat folded over the back of the camp chair—and quickly filched the coins. He straightened up in time to see Denswoz striding toward them, carrying a canteen of water and frowning. In his position bent over the maps, Napoleon blocked Denswoz’s view of Kessler as he entered the field headquarters, so he could not have seen the theft. Not directly. But something had aroused his suspicion.

Kessler looked quickly away, and said something about “seeing that my horse is watered as well.” He headed to the edge of the camp, then glanced back at Napoleon—his last sight of him ever—and went quickly out to where the horses were picketed.

He had another duty, he reflected, as he strode to his chestnut mare—when the time came, he must kill Denswoz. Alberle Denswoz was a predatory Hundjager and Kessler suspected him of feeding on dying soldiers and killing peasants purely for the sake of amusement along their route. But there would be time to execute Denswoz later. First Kessler wanted to uncover his agenda and killing him might sever traceable ties. And Denswoz would not be hard to find when the time came.

The sentries were used to seeing Johann Kessler come and go and no one said a word as he rode past them into the damp Sonian Forest. Ghosts of misty evaporation ascended from the ferns like the souls of fallen soldiers. The sounds of battle echoed between the boles of the beech trees, growing muted as he continued along the sunken, winding lane. His horse’s hooves gave out a lonely clopping as his mount trotted along.

He would skirt the battle in the forest, then head east to Germany...

But the urgent hoof-beats of galloping horses came drumming behind him. Kessler turned in his saddle, half expecting to see a troupe of cavalrymen coming after him. But it was Alberle Denswoz who pursued him—accompanied by a young man Kessler hadn’t seen before. The brutal, fixated look on their faces made their intentions clear.

They came on rapidly, galloping up to either side of him, the young man on a roan, Denswoz on his burly cloudy-white horse. Kessler reined in so that their momentum would carry them past. He prepared to turn, thinking to dodge into the depths of the forest. But Denswoz turned in his saddle and fired a pistol—striking Kessler’s mare in the head. The horse collapsed beneath him and he was only just able to jump clear.

Kessler regained his footing and drew his dragoon saber with his right hand; the saber had a falcon worked into its pommel, a part of his family crest. He had a loaded pistol in his sash, ready to draw if he had a clear target.

The two horsemen had already turned their mounts, and were riding hard at him—but then Denswoz reined in his horse so abruptly it skidded on its hooves, neighing, eyes wild.

“Did you think I couldn’t track you down?” Denswoz snarled.

“I should have known you would,” Kessler admitted. “Tracking is a Hundjager gift, after all.”

“I’ll kill you face to face, up close, you thieving scum,” Denswoz growled. His face was transforming, as he dismounted, devolving into the Hundjager’s doglike features; the Wesen’s eyes, the color of the juice of blood oranges, glinted with bloodlust.

Denswoz came at him, uplifted dragoon saber shining in a shaft of light angling down through the trees. Kessler moved whiplash quick, and sidestepped out of the saber’s whistling arc, at the same instant stabbing his own blade deeply into Denswoz’s left armpit. The agonized Hundjager howled, the sound distinctly wolflike, and twisted loose from the blade. He stared, blinking, seeming startled by Kessler’s speed.

But a powerful Wesen was not so easy to kill, and the Hundjager squared off with him again, teeth clenched, growling, upper lip peeling back in a snarl. The boy, no more than fifteen, climbed off his horse with less skill than Denswoz had shown, and came at Kessler from the left.

“Lukas, stay back!” Denswoz growled.

“Father—let me help! You’re wounded!”

So this was Denswoz’s son, Lukas. He’d heard it mentioned that the boy was meeting Denswoz at Waterloo.

“Listen to your father,” Kessler urged. “I don’t want to have to kill you too.”

Blood was leaking from Denswoz’s Hundjager muzzle. But he charged Kessler, leaping and swinging the saber at once. Kessler’s Grimm reflexes did not fail him: he ducked easily under the assault, and let Denswoz’s momentum carry him past, so that the Wesen fell heavily on the path close beside Kessler’s fallen horse.

Kessler spun toward the boy, who was aiming a pistol from four paces away. Lukas Denswoz fired, and the ball hissed past Kessler’s left ear. Lukas cursed, and threw the pistol aside, raising his saber. The teenager’s face was transforming—the Hundjager in him forcing its way into view.

Kessler drew his own pistol—a Lepage that was a gift from Napoleon himself—and aimed carefully at the boy’s right shoulder. He fired, and the boy yelped, stumbled, and fell groaning. The pistol ball had shattered the bone of his shoulder.

Kessler turned just in time to see that the older Denswoz was up, his bestial mouth bubbling with red foam.

“Kessler—throw the coins down and walk away! I will let you live a while longer!” he demanded.