The Demon Lord’s Cloak

Prologue

“We’ll all be dead by morning.” Martin’s voice quavered as he emptied another glass of Frau Sophie’s precious peach schnapps.

“Who’d have guessed it’d be nigh on impossible to find a virgin in this valley?” his companion said.

“Pah! Even my own daughter,” Martin moaned. “What’s the world coming to, Edgard? Young women giving themselves like barmaids…”

Edgard’s shoulders slumped. “I tell you it was the last May Day celebration. The bürgermeister should never have let Sophie provide the drink.”

“We should have locked every last one of the unmarried maidens in a cellar.”

“Well, no use grousing.” Martin set down his glass. “We have a problem. Now’s the time for clear thinking.”

“There’s no solution. The village will disappear, swallowed by Hell itself when we fail to provide his bride.” Edgard’s reddened eyes widened. “Couldn’t we mount a raid on Fulkenstein down the valley…take a girl or two…”

“There’s no time left. We only had the new moon to give that devil his due. It ends tomorrow night. We’d never be back in time.”

Edgard shook his head, sighing. “We’ve failed. Daemonberg will be no more. Best get the women packing tonight so we can flee come morning. A thousand years of prosperity and health—gone for the lack of a single maidenhead.”

“We’re doomed, I tell you.” Martin lifted the schnapps bottle and tilted it over his glass. He gave it a shake, and then slammed it down on the table. Turning toward the bar, he shouted, “Sophie, liebchen , bring us another bottle, will you?”

As he turned back to his friend, he saw a woman step through the doorway of the inn. Her beauty arrested him—far prettier than any of the strapping blond women of the village, this one was slender, with delicate features and deep reddish-brown hair that glinted like fire in the torchlight, rather like the bay he’d bid on and lost at an auction in early spring.

He elbowed Edgard beside him. “Look there.”

Both men turned to stare at the young woman entering.

“Where’s her escort?” Edgard whispered.

“She looks wary. I’d wager she’s on her own.”

They shared a charged glance, shoulders straightening.

“What do you suppose the chances are she’s a virgin?” Edgard asked softly.

“She’s beyond fair. What man would care whether he was her first just so long as he’s her last? Besides, what other options have we?”

Sophie slammed another bottle in the center of the table and gave them a scathing glance. “If you go home to your wives legless with drink, I’ll not take the blame.”

“We’ll have just one more glass,” Martin assured her, reaching around to pat her rump. “For the road. We’ve business to attend.”

Sophie rolled her eyes and turned, her ample hips rolling as she walked across the room to greet the young woman who waved her away.

“If they only knew the solemn duty we perform,” Martin whispered. “They’d call us heroes.”

Only they could never tell a soul. That too was part of their sacred oath, handed down from father to son.

Edgard poured them both another drink, then lifted his glass. “To another hundred years of peace and wealth.”

Martin lifted his glass with one hand and crossed himself with the other. “To the fair maiden with the red hair—God rest her soul.”