The Dark Monk by Oliver Pötzsch, Lee Chadeayne

bordered the western city wall. The building was in disrepair: One of the guard towers was missing a roof, and snow was falling directly onto the charred rafters. A bridge with rotting railings spanned a moat overgrown with weeds and led into the interior of the compound.
    Just as Kuisl was about to cross the bridge, he heard a whinnying and hoofbeats. From the interior courtyard, a black steed emerged, heading right for the hangman at a fast gallop. The rider was dressed in a black habit and cowl that almost completely concealed his face. He seemed not to notice Jakob Kuisl and continued galloping directly toward him so that he could avoid a collision only by jumping aside at the last moment. A corner of the rider’s coat brushed Kuisl’s face, and just as the hangman’s nose detected the fragrance of an expensive, exotic perfume, the figure disappeared around the next corner. The hangman cursed the unknown rider, then continued the few steps across the bridge to enter the building.
    Jakob Kuisl arrived at the clerk’s office on the second floor and was preparing to knock on the massive wooden door when he noticed that it wasn’t closed, just slightly ajar. The door squeaked as it swung inward, and in front of him sat Johann Lechner, armed with a quill pen and ink, reviewing some papers by candlelight while his right hand moved vigorously and erratically across the parchment. For a while, the only thing audible was the scratching of the pen.
    “You can take a seat, Kuisl,” the clerk said finally, without looking up. His face was pale, almost waxen, an impression accentuated by his black goatee. He wore a flat, dark velvet cap and a plain jacket that was just as dark. When Lechner finally looked up, Kuisl found himself staring into two black eyes that seemed to be in constant motion and appeared remarkably large in relation to his narrow face behind his pince-nez.
    “I said sit down,” the clerk repeated, pointing to a stool in front of the stained oak table that took up practically the entire width of the room. “I have a job for you.”
    “Did you finally catch one of the bandits?” Jakob Kuisl grumbled, settling onto the stool. The wooden stool groaned under the weight of his massive frame but didn’t give way.
    “Well, not exactly,” the clerk replied, playing with the goose quill in his hand. “That’s the reason I called you.” He leaned back in his chair. “As you may know, a group of citizens has been formed to hunt down this band of murderers, and I’d like you to lead them.”
    “Me?” Jakob Kuisl almost choked. “But—”
    “I know, as a hangman, you are dishonorable and cannot give orders to citizens,” the clerk interrupted him, “but they’re afraid of you, and they have respect for you. Those are pretty good qualifications for a leader. Besides, you’re the only one I would entrust with a job like this. Didn’t you kill that huge wolf just last year? And the matter with the mercenaries in the spring…You are strong and clever, you can fight, and you know this riffraff better than people like us.”
    “Why don’t you appoint one of the aldermen as a leader?” the hangman joked. “They know how to push people around.”
    Johann Lechner laughed. “You mean Semer? Or old Hardenberg? I might as well send my mother. Fat, effeminate moneybags! Even the Swedes wouldn’t have accepted them as hostages. No, Kuisl, you’re the one. You have proved often enough that you’re good for more than just stringing people up. And as far as giving orders…” He grinned at the hangman. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell the gentlemen that the executioner is calling the shots this time. It will be good for them. Do you still have your weapon from the war? You were in the war, weren’t you?”
    Jakob Kuisl nodded. Images floated through his mind like poisonous clouds. More than you can imagine, he thought.
    “Fine,” said the clerk. “The hunt will begin the day after tomorrow at eight in the