Rasmussen

The Plagueless

         The silence of the Parisian streets were suddenly interrupted by ten riders. From  far away already one could tell that they were of important stature, or at least of important business. They rode with skill and determination, eyes forward and chin up. Their highbred mounts were covered with armor and silk. The saddles were decorated with crossbows and broadswords.
         Once inside the city, the riders' leader, a tall, bearded man with a scar across his cheek, called a halt. They gave up their horses to the stable boy and paid him a few florins to clean and feed them. The men did not shed their armor; neither did they unsheathe their weapons. They crossed the street and entered a tavern.
         Everyone turned their heads as they strode in, their heavy steps making a thud on the wooden floor. The leader ordered drinks and they all gratefully sat down at a table. The room was soundless except for coughs and shuffling of feet. The newcomers did not talk.
         The waiter brought ten beers, and in half a minute he was back with a second round. He tried to make small talk with the arrivals, but he was discouraged by the lack of response.
         One of the men at the other tables rose. All eyes turned to him and in return his eyes fell to the floor. He exited through a back door without a word.
         After a minute, the man returned with a companion. He was completely bald, and had no hair on his face. He worn a gold cross across his neck, and his clothes were of the finest out of all the men in the tavern. He carried no sword or armor.
         Instead of sitting with his friend, he made straight for the table of the newcomers. He ignored the bartender's offer for a drink as he stood beside their table. His eyes scanned every one of them, until they rested on the leader.
         "Who are you?" he said.
         "Who's asking?" the leader replied, taking a sip of his beer.
         "The Lord of Rheims. Answer me."
         "A lord! Lingering in this kind of tavern? Where's your castle?" He chuckled.
         "It's been quarantined. Now who are you?"
         "I am Barbarossa, the Baron of Vienna. Now leave us alone and go about your business, lord."
         "You're a long way from home."
         "I have business a long way from home," Barbarossa replied, irritated.
         "So important that you must come all the way to France yourself, and with the bodyguard of nine men."
Barbarossa did not reply.
         "Well," the Lord of Rheims began, "I do not know how conditions are in Vienna, but they are dismal here in Paris. The plague runs amok amongst man, woman, and child. The ill are outnumbering the healthy. The uninfected have begun hiding in their homes, scared to even come out for bread and water. Meanwhile the infected litter the streets. They should be quarantined, just as in my Rheims, but Paris is too big for that kind of operation."
         "We are afraid of no plague," Barbarossa said plainly. "We have business and will not stay long in Paris. You need not worry about us."
         "I am not worrying, simply warning."
         "Thank you, lord, but we can take care of ourselves. There are few bandits in France these days, and the plague does not frighten us."
         The Lord of Rheims nodded thoughtfully. He paused for a second to leave, but then asked, "Where will you go after you leave Paris?"
         "That's a dangerous question, my lord," Barbarossa said, but he did not seem angry.
         "It's a necessary one, in the interest of your safety."
         "I already told you that our safety is not your concern."
         "Safety can be underrated sometimes, baron. I will tell you what I tell all passerby. If your travels take you northwest, you must go around the forest of Seine. There is evil there."
         "What, more plague?" Barbarossa scoffed.
         "Quite the opposite, baron. Farewell." The lord nodded at the men, then exited through the back door without another word.
         Barbarossa scratched his beard and looked at his bodyguard. They were all seasoned knights, most of them serving him since he was a boy. They were vicious men at times, but that was how the world had raised them. In any situation they were solemn, and Barbarossa had grown to respect them. He was awed that viciousness and solemnity could work so well together.
         Barbarossa glanced around, and finding no one especially close, he reached inside his sleeve and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. He flattened it out and pushed it towards the man on his right. It was a map. "Erik, show us."
         Erik studied the map carefully with his dark eyes, and then turned to his leader. "The forest is north of here, and slightly west. It would be the most direct route. There is a road. Riding west would bring us to the river."
Barbarossa nodded. He sighed and finished his beer. "It is odd that this task was designated to me, and not the Emperor. They gravity of this mission is heavy on my shoulders, but we must reach Rasmussen. He is our goal. We are very close."
         There was silence at the table. Each man was lost in his thoughts.
         As the sun set, the tavern emptied. One of the bodyguards named Samuel went to the bartender and paid for the rooms upstairs.


         The morning was routine. Barbarossa and his men left their rooms and retrieved their horses from the stable. They ate mutton as they rode through Paris. Barbarossa did not want to linger, so he set the pace with a steady gallop.
         The infected, with their dark bruises and swellings, lay on the street, covered in rags. Their eyes did not follow the riders as they raced by. At one point the stench was so great that Barbarossa felt like vomiting, but he resisted the impulse for the sake of his men. He reminded himself that the plague did not frighten him.
         They found the road into the forest and put on an extra burst of speed to get out of the city. Buildings gave way to fields, and soon the air was clean again. The forest could be seen less than a mile away.
         They rode hard, just as they did all the way from Vienna. Barbarossa was in front with Erik when he heard coughing from behind. When it did not stop, Barbarossa signaled to Erik.
         Erik slowed down to match the pace of Samuel, who had suffered the coughing fit. Samuel cleared his throat and tapped his chest.
         "Are you alright?" Erik asked, coming up beside Samuel.
         Samuel turned his head to Erik, and Erik could see that his eyes were bloodshot. "I'm fine," Samuel replied.          "I just didn't sleep well last night."
         Erik galloped to the front again, and reported to Barbarossa. "He's fine."
         Barbarossa nodded, satisfied.
         Thick, tall trees started to surround the road. The path began narrower, so three horses could only fit at once. Birds chirped softly, and some where far off a crow cawed.
         "Odd," Barbarossa observed, looking at the road. "There are no footprints."
         No one said anything. They just continued riding. It was an hour before they stopped hearing birds, and the silence was eerie. It was just like every other forest in France, but this one seemed different.
         Suddenly, Barbarossa saw something shine in the woods to his right. It was the reflection of the sun off a sword. "Ambush!" he yelled.
         Immediately his bodyguard halted and dismounted. They quickly made their horses into a circle to shield themselves from arrows. From the forest came a group of men with swords and maces. They crashed into          Barbarossa's men and combat ensued.
         They were clumsy fighters, and Barbarossa's bodyguard made quick work of them. Without warning, another wave of fighters from the forest charged, wearing civilian clothes and no armor.
         The horses had scattered, and to Barbarossa's anger, the attackers grabbed them and rode of into the forest. He fought harder. Men fell under his sword, but there was always another one to take his place.
         The attackers were no match for armored, elite soldiers. With quick and deadly efficiency, the last man was finally cut down, every member of the bodyguard still alive.
         "Who are you?" Barbarossa yelled, as more men gathered near the tree line. "Why do you fight us? We're only passing through!"
         Barbarossa turned around to the other side of the road and found fifty men ready with bows drawn.
         "Drop your weapons!" someone shouted from the forest. An old man emerged from the forest and stared at them. "Drop your weapons, how dare you come here?"
         The bodyguard hesitated, but they were completely vulnerable out on the road. Barbarossa nodded to his men and they placed their weapons on the ground.
         "What do you want from us?" Barbarossa asked. The civilians approached and grabbed his men. They tied their hands with ropes and led them into the forest.
         The old man studied Barbarossa. "This is a colony. We lived in Paris but we moved here, away from the infected."
         They had only walked five minutes when they arrived at a campsite. There were tents filled with families and children. Over the fire a wild boar was being roasted.
         "Sit down," the old man said, pointing at the ground around the fire. Barbarossa and his men sat, but the old man did not continue speaking. He stared into the fire until Barbarossa spoke.
         "You attacked us first," he stated. "We cannot be held responsible for the deaths of your men."
         "I know," the old man said, sighing. "It's just that they thought you had the plague. Anyone with the plague we kill, or else everyone here is endangered. We have become paranoid at the very sight of other people from outside the forest, especially from Paris. You should always be paranoid of something that can kill you."
         "We are not from Paris, but Vienna. We only pass by. Release us."
The old man nodded and motioned to his men to untie the bodyguard.
         "Thank you, we will be on our way," Barbarossa said, rubbing his hands. Then there was a scream.
         One of the men untying Samuel had started to run away. Everyone looked at Samuel. A dark bruise had an emerged on his right cheek, a bruise that was characteristic of the plague now devastating Western Europe.
         "You devils!" the old man screamed. "You bring the plague here? Guards! Kill them!"
         The whole campsite became chaos. Barbarossa had not yet retrieved his sword, so he elbowed a guard and grabbed his sword. Half of the camp was running away in fear, while the other half charged the bodyguard, in hopes that they could kill the plague quickly.
         Barbarossa could see that they were completely surrounded. Samuel had been overwhelmed with attackers and now his body lay on the dry ground, completely trampled. His bodyguard used all their skill to make space between themselves and the attackers to make room to swing a sword. Erik had withdrawn his small dagger and was swinging short, quick jabs into the stomachs of the assaulters.
         Barbarossa could feel his armor being struck again and again. He used every part of his body to fend off the attackers. Whenever he swung, he could feel flesh being punctured. There is no honor in killing unarmored soldiers, he thought. There were women and children that flung themselves at him. But in the heat of battle it was hard to distinguish between the two.
         He now saw that his bodyguard had become separated. They were singled out and attacked from all sides. Erik collapsed from a blow to the back of his head. The others were being pressed constantly, but they were always solemn and vicious. Even in such circumstances, they were still able to keep their composure and refuse to allow panic to spread.
         Barbarossa's muscles were becoming tired. He tripped over bodies underfoot, and only saved himself when he rolled away from the swing of a sword. He regained his balance and smashed his sword into a mob of shrieking people. He felt blood on his beard.
         Then someone grabbed his arm from behind. He could not use his sword, so he began elbowing. He did see the large man with the mace until too late. The blow left him on his knees, and then someone jabbed him in the back. He looked at the ground and fell.
         As he was falling, a bottle fell from inside his armor and shattered on the ground. Barbarossa fell on top of it, and watched the liquid soak into the soil.
         That had been their task. To bring the cure of the plague to Rasmussen, the only doctor who could reproduce it.