Vienna Blood

86

Liebermann raced down the avenue of shocked faces.

“Stop him!” cried the venerable over the ensuing uproar. “Brother Diethelm! Stop him!”

Liebermann registered the name.

Brother Diethelm?

It seemed that the venerable was referring to Olbricht rather than commanding someone called Diethelm to intervene.

Two Masons who seemed to be acting as a ceremonial guard at the entrance of the temple jumped forward, their arms outstretched. Olbricht lowered his head and charged through their feeble blockade, knocking both men sprawling across the floor. His escape took him between the great Corinthian pillars and into the darkness beyond.

Liebermann ran faster, the soles of his shoes pounding the black and white tiles as he pursued his quarry. He was unable to stop himself in the vestibule and skidded to a painful collision with the central stone column of the stairwell. The impact left him breathless and brought him to a jarring halt. From below came the fading diminuendo of receding footsteps. A question, barely articulated, flashed into Liebermann's mind: Why didn't he go up? It was accompanied by a shiver of unease. He dismissed this odd presentiment and hurled himself into a stumbling descent, his top hat flying from his head in the process. He thundered down the stairs, made dizzy by the tight curves of the spiral. Down, down-deeper and deeper into the earth until the stone wedges vanished and momentum carried him forward, through an open door.

Suddenly he found himself in the middle of a library.

There was no other exit through which Olbricht might have made an escape. Bookshelves lined the walls on either side. Directly ahead was a painted escutcheon, showing the sun and moon personified by the superimposition of sinister faces. Liebermann swung around, just in time to see Olbricht slam the door and turn a key.

The two men froze as if they had both come into the purview of a petrifying Gorgon.

Liebermann swallowed. A sequence of images flashed into his mind, each one jolted into consciousness by a ruthless magnesium light. Mutilated flesh, lakes of blood, exposed viscera-the corpse of Ra'ad, laid out on the table like some sacrificial offering to a perverse and cruel god.

Liebermann swallowed again. But this time there was no saliva in his mouth. He had become desiccated by terror, a chill, sickly, enervating terror that sucked the marrow from his bones and made his legs untrustworthy.

Someone was thumping a clenched fist against the door.

Three strikes.

Pause.

Four strikes.

Then a muffled voice: “Open up, open up!”

Olbricht was preternaturally still-just as he had been in the sewers when, from his elevated vantage point, he had calmly studied his pursuers. He seemed oblivious to the noise outside.

Quite suddenly he raised his right hand, creating an angle with his extended forefinger and thumb. For a brief moment he closed one eye and assumed the traditional stance of a portraitist mentally “framing” his subject.

“Herr Olbricht…” The name escaped from Liebermann's lips like an involuntary sigh. But nothing followed. What could he say to such a creature? What appeal could he make? Begging Olbricht to be rational, merciful, or prudent would be as pointless as reciting a Goethe poem to him.

The thumping at the door had become an incessant drumming, like heavy rainfall.

“Open up!” The muffled voice had been joined by others.

Olbricht's right hand dropped to his weapon's hilt. There was a harsh ringing metallic scrape, and a moment later he was holding his sabre above his head.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Olbricht sliced the air with a showy display of swordsmanship. After a ferocious burst of activity he tossed his sabre into the air, where it seemed to remain suspended, in defiance of gravity. The revolving blade flashed flecks of lamplight around the room until Olbricht reclaimed it with a swift snatching action. Although such bravura might represent little more than burlesque villainy, empty fanfaronade, Liebermann instinctively understood that this was not the case. He was in the presence of a confident, assertive swordsman.

The artist strode forward.

With great reluctance, Liebermann drew his own sabre, wishing as he did so that he had been very much more attentive during Signore Barbasetti's fencing lessons. Why had he spent so much of that precious time thinking about pastries instead of technique?

Liebermann braced himself for a wild, slashing attack. But he was surprised by Olbricht's approach, which was slow, cautious, and measured. Their swords drew closer together but did not touch. Instead, the blades made minute movements-tiny provocations and withdrawals. It seemed that contact was denied by an invisible field of repelling force. Eventually the mysterious prohibition was broken, and they crossed swords for the first time with a gentle tap that produced a soft ringing sound.

Olbricht tested his opponent with a feint, which Liebermann replied to calmly, maintaining a considerable distance. The young doctor was mindful of Olbricht's posture. There was something about the buoyancy of his body-and a certain generalized tension-that suggested a readiness to spring.

The thumping on the door stopped and a voice called out, “Open the door or we'll break it down.”

Olbricht was completely unperturbed by the threat. He edged forward-choosing, like most accomplished swordsmen, to study his opponent's eyes rather than the position of his opponent's blade.

Liebermann made a half thrust-intending it to be a false attackbefore following through with a passata-sotto. Olbricht stood firm. Then Liebermann found himself watching the monster's blade arcing past his stomach. He felt something catch. The tip of Olbricht's sabre had sliced through the material of his vest. Too astonished to respond swiftly, Liebermann was driven backward by a powerful lower thrust.

The door frame gave a sharp cracking sound. Unfortunately, like everything in Elysium it had a sturdy well-constructed appearance.

Liebermann essayed another thrust but Olbricht opposed him with a perfect counterparry, circling the young doctor's blade and casually turning it aside. The defense had been cleanly and precisely executed.

“Herr Olbricht,” said Liebermann, breathless with exertion, “the door will not hold for much longer.”

Olbricht's response was as to the point as his counterparry.

“I know.”

Liebermann tried to think of something else to say-something that might engage Olbricht in a few more precious seconds of conversation. It was just a matter of delaying him. But no words came. Liebermann's mind was a white sheet of fear: void, blank, intractable.

Olbricht's brow furrowed with concentration. He lunged, this time with extreme speed and violence, so quick that Liebermann only just managed to interpose his own sabre. Once again the sheer force of the attack pushed him backward.

A regular thudding sound declared that the Masons had adopted a systematic strategy for breaking down the door. Liebermann imagined them inefficiently pushing against the panels with their shoulders.

“Kick it! Kick it down, for pity's sake!” he shouted in desperation. “Kick it by the lock.”

Before he had finished the sentence, Olbricht was upon him and they were locked in combat. The confined space reverberated with the harsh clash of steel.

Parry, parry, parry.

The onslaught forced Liebermann into continuous retreat. He lost ground and Olbricht came forward. Again he lost ground-and Olbricht's attack became more frenzied.

Parry, parry, parry.

Liebermann sensed an object behind him-a desk, perhaps? Very soon he would be trapped. His mind was seized by an uncontrollable panic. Without thinking, he ran off to the side, exposing his back. It was utter stupidity. Suicide. He expected to feel the force of Olbricht's fatal lunge at any moment, the sabre penetrating his flesh and skewering his liver-but it never came. It was then that Liebermann realized the true nature of their conflict. Olbricht was simply playing with him, teasing out new registers of fear for his own deranged pleasure.

The young doctor's awkward escape ended as he tripped clumsily. He turned to face Olbricht and tried to discipline his panic.

He is only human, only human.

Liebermann repeated these words to himself like a litany.

Only human, only human.

The hysterical terror began to subside.

Lieberman thought of Signore Barbasetti. He remembered how his fencing master would often express displeasure by tapping his temple to emphasize a favorite injunction: Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.

Again, their weapons connected.

Parry, thrust, parry, coupe, parry, thrust.

Liebermann was surprised to discover that he was able to hold off Olbricht's attack somewhat better than before. The artist's movements were not so swift. Perhaps he was becoming complacent. Or, even better, perhaps he was tiring.

Encouraged, Liebermann lunged. Olbricht deflected the attack but failed to resume his guard. The artist's chest was exposed. He could do it-he would do it! Liebermann raised his sabre but found that he was unable to deliver the fatal blow.

If only he had been more attentive in Barbasetti's lessons!

How often had the Italian demonstrated the very same maneuver? A line intentionally left open to invite an impetuous attack.

Liebermann held his breath. He was utterly paralyzed by the pricking sensation over his heart. With consummate skill, Olbricht had halted the blade at the point of penetration. Liebermann dared not move. If his own sabre so much as trembled, Olbricht would strike. Liebermann closed his eyes-and waited. The door frame groaned.

Even as he resigned himself to oblivion, Liebermann could not help making one final clinical observation.

He is feasting on my terror, savoring my despair. He cannot plunge the blade between my ribs until his sadistic appetites have been fully satisfied.

Liebermann opened his eyes. He did not wish to die a coward. He wanted to meet his end defiantly.

Olbricht was craning forward, tilting his head to one side, making a close examination of Liebermann's features. The young doctor stared into the widely spaced eyes-and noticed for the first time that they only appeared to be set so widely apart because the bridge of Olbricht's nose had sunk. The deep creases around Olbricht's mouth compressed and his lips parted. He was smiling-and in doing so he was exhibiting two rows of peculiarly stunted teeth, the ends of which were rough and uneven. Liebermann had never been this close to Olbricht before, had never had the opportunity to study the peculiarities of his physiognomy.

Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.

Signor Barbasetti's injunction returned with haunting persistence.

Yes, of course!

Olbricht's irregular lineaments were not merely the result of his parental legacy-the germ plasm of his mother and father-but of some other process: a pathological process. The young doctor made his diagnosis, from which a series of bold inferences followed.

“Your mother,” Liebermann began. “You loved her, didn't you? But she never returned your love. She never had the time. Always busy entertaining gentlemen. Foreigners. Hungarians, Czechs, Croats… Jews?”

Olbricht looked startled. His eyes widened.

“And you had dreams,” Liebermann continued, gaining confidence. “Terrible dreams. Nightmares. About animals: wolves, dogs… You still get them, don't you?” The words tumbled out, hurried, frantic. “And then there was the music! You lived behind a theater-a small folk theater. When your mother was entertaining her gentleman friends, you could hear music. Operettas, popular songs. But the most unforgettable melodies, the ones that lodged in your mind and wouldn't go away, were from an opera by Mozart: The Magic Flute.”

Olbricht's expression changed. He looked bemused, almost frightened. Childlike.

“What are you?” His voice sounded hoarse, as though he had suddenly been confronted by a supernatural intelligence.

“I am a doctor-I can help you.”

But Liebermann had miscalculated. Olbricht did not want to be helped. The fearful expression on the artist's face was fading. Liebermann edged gently backward. In doing so, he created just enough space between Olbricht's blade and his chest to risk a single swift emancipating movement. He knocked Olbricht's sabre aside with the flat of his free gloved hand-and ran…

When Liebermann turned, he found himself backed up against a wall, facing an attack of demonic intensity. Blow followed blow. They rained down upon him: heavy, insistent, and deadly. Although Olbricht's attack was no longer controlled, Liebermann knew that he could hold off such a brutal assault for only a matter of seconds. His arm ached, weakened by each shocking impact.

Liebermann fell down on one knee. His weapon felt heavy and it began to slip from his hand. Drawing on some hidden vital reserve of energy, he held his sabre aloft horizontally, like a shield. The relentless pounding continued, powered by an inexhaustible fury. Liebermann was dimly aware of a loud crashing sound-and suddenly, miraculously, he was no longer alone. A sea of faces had appeared behind Olbricht, and a moment later Kanner was by Liebermann's side, deflecting Olbricht's hammer blows.

Exhausted and close to collapse, Liebermann watched the artist retreating, surrounded by a host of fresh, energetic adversaries. Olbricht wheeled around like a deadly dervish, his glinting blade creating a scintillating protective aura.

Kanner knelt beside Liebermann, placing a solicitous arm around his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

Liebermann nodded.

The crowd had closed around Olbricht, obscuring him from view, but Liebermann could still hear the chilling shriek of the artist's scything blade. Eventually the pitch of the screaming of metal through air dropped and the rhythm of more conventional engagement resumed, eventually slackening off to the rattle of intermittent, irregular contacts.

A powerful voice rose above the melee: “Brother Diethelm, I command you to drop your sword.”

The clattering stopped and an eerie silence prevailed.

“You are vastly outnumbered. I repeat: drop your sword.”

A pendulum clock sounded a hollow beat. Each percussive swing seemed to ratchet the tension up by degrees.

“Brother Diethelm?”

A thud followed by a metallic ringing was accompanied by a collective groan of relief.

Through a gap in the crowd, Liebermann briefly glimpsed the defeated artist. He was standing, arms outstretched, like Christ crucified, his head thrown back. A sob convulsed his chest.

“It is over,” Olbricht cried. “I can do no more.”

In his eyes, Liebermann recognized the light of Valhalla burning.