Chapter Text
The ride to the Devil’s Den proved more pleasant than Henry had expected. After the deception at Nebakov, he didn't know what to make of Captain Zizka, but now... He didn't think he could trust the man more. Henry would trust the one-eyed commander with his life now, and if Zizka believed that finding Lord Hynek—the so-called Dry Devil—would help them in turn rescue Hans, Henry was willing to follow. God willing, this time it might be straightforward.
Of course, it was never that simple. Suchdol had yielded nothing, and this den was the next best chance. Why the Devil would lift a finger to help find Hans, Henry did not know, but he could not afford to doubt.
Not knowing where Hans was gnawed at him, a sharp, constant pin-prick in his chest that drew into a knot in his stomach. Brotherhood, perhaps. But Henry suspected brotherhood was not supposed to feel this crushing. He had worried for Godwin, even for Zizka when they were imprisoned together, but nothing like this. Saving Hans mattered above all else.
“The den is quiet for the afternoon,” Zizka remarked as they approached the inn—a modest building tucked away in the countryside, its whitewashed walls spattered with mud and faded wine stains.
“Is that not good? Perhaps there is no trouble for once,” Henry began, but the door flew open, and a man tumbled out, jug in hand, hitting the ground with a heavy thump. Zizka’s mace was in hand in an instant, and Henry drew his sword to follow.
“I warned you!” roared a man striding after the fallen drunkard. He delivered a hard kick to the man’s ribs.
“I didn’t cheat!” wheezed the man on the ground, smiling as though the world were in perfect order.
“Pay us our coin, or I’ll cut your head from your shoulders here and now,” growled another, blade levelled at the drunkard’s chest.
The fellow on the ground only chuckled, clutching his jug. “What can I say? The dice fall more kindly once I’ve had a drink. God’s own gift! And you wouldn’t get a groschen for a turnip like me in any case.”
“Ha! You’re right about that.” The sword-man raised his blade to plunge into the drunkard’s gut when Zizka’s voice cut through the air.
“I’d have a use for that turnip, you know.” He stood calm, unbothered, every inch the soldier Henry envied.
“And who the hell are you?” the man spat, turning his blade on Zizka.
“Lower that paper-knife before you hurt yourself, boy,” Zizka rumbled.
“Zizka! At last!” cried the drunkard, rolling onto his stomach.
“Still a drunken sod, Kubyenka?” Zizka shot back.
“You know me, sir.” With startling agility, Kubyenka sprang up and rammed a sword through one of his tormentors. Henry braced for the fight.
The rest proved hardly more than boys playing banditry. Their armour was no better than padded cloth, their swords dull. Henry dispatched his opponent with ease, grateful at least for the practice. The bodies bled freely on the inn’s courtyard stones, and Henry tried kicking sand over the mess, but it only spread.
“Handy with a sword, boy,” Kubyenka grinned, nodding to him. Henry managed a smile.
“Where is your band, Zizka?”
“You’re looking at it. Sigismund’s curs turned coat. This lad stood with me when it counted.” Zizka gestured to the blood-stained patch that now covered his ruined eye.
Kubyenka slapped Henry’s shoulder approvingly. “You must handle yourself well indeed!”
Zizka waved him off. “Enough. Where is the Devil? I need words with him.”
Kubyenka scratched his beard, sighing. “Well… he’s locked up.”
Zizka stiffened. “Locked up? How in Christ’s name—?”
“Some armoured bastards took him after a job in Kuttenberg went sour. Outnumbered us. Adder tried to pull him away, but they were on him like cats. We’d all be in irons if we hadn’t run.”
“God’s wounds,” muttered Zizka.
Henry stepped forward. “Do you know where they hold him?”
“The town jail, I’d wager. But you’ll not drag him out of there—not alive.”
“How long?” Henry pressed.
Kubyenka shrugged. “As long as I’ve been drinking. A week? Maybe a month.”
“Why haven’t they hanged him?” Henry asked.
“Because of the price on his head. He’s the most feared robber-baron in Bohemia, lad. They’ll not waste him on the gallows. No, they’ll send him to Sigismund, make a grand show of it.”
“Then we’ll take him in transit,” Henry said quickly. Zizka nodded.
The ambush was brutal. Henry and Zizka carried most of the fight while the hired archers loosed half-hearted arrows. Still, with Zizka hacking and Henry skewering the last man with a roar, they took the wagon.
The Devil himself was bound within, grimy and bloodied, an arrow lodged in his backside. His body bore the map of old scars; his face was pocked, his lips pressed thin in a scowl. His eyes glimmered dark beneath heavy brows—a robber-baron made flesh.
“Fucking hell, Hynek!” Zizka leaned on the wagon. “Why were you so heavily guarded?”
“Why are you in a floppy bloody hat? And why is there an arrow in my arse?” the Devil bellowed, while Kubyenka slipped away.
Zizka loosened his bonds with a sigh. “Stay in the cart. We’ll take you back.”
“Too right I will. If Kubyenka loosed that shot, I’ll wring his neck—”
“Stop your whining. Save your strength,” Zizka grinned, clapping his shoulder.
That night, the inn rang with noise enough for twenty men. The Devil had not drunk in weeks, and Kubyenka was already falling off the benches. Henry was grateful for the respite, however brief it would end up being; the stories and songs distracted him very well from pining over Hans and despairing over whether he was safe.
“How is he drunk again? He was drunk when we found him!” Henry laughed, watching Kubyenka roll around and giggling.
“Boy, he was born drunk,” the Devil smirked.
Zizka chuckled, beginning a tale, when a sudden sound cut through the laughter. Outside, the wind carried the distinct thrum of hoofbeats—four of them, fast and deliberate, drumming against the dirt road leading to the inn. Henry stiffened, heart hammering, and the laughter in the room seemed to vanish.
Zizka’s hand went to his mace, eyes narrowing. “They’re coming,” he hissed, pulling Henry upright. “Get ready.”
From the shadows of the yard, four figures emerged, their forms partially obscured by the dim glow of the inn’s windows. Weapons gleamed faintly—swords, a crossbow, and something heavier at one man’s side. They moved cautiously, scanning for movement, approaching with slow, deliberate steps, each bootfall silent and threatening.
Henry’s grip on his sword tightened. Even from this distance, he could see their coordination: the lead man gesturing with a tilt of his head, the others falling into a staggered formation that balanced offence and defence. Every movement radiated intent, the tension in their shoulders betraying their readiness to strike.
“They’ve tracked us,” Zizka whispered. “Or maybe the bodies were found. Either way—they know we’re here.”
“But why announce themselves so loudly?” Henry murmured.
“Who gives a damn?” growled the Devil, cocking a crossbow from the shadows. “I could do with a bit of blood on my hands.”
Henry’s heart pounded. The four men continued their approach, shadows flickering against the trees lining the yard. Each slight rasp of armour, the subtle clink of steel, made Henry’s nerves tighten. This was no casual visit—they meant battle, and the inn would be their arena.
Zizka’s voice broke the tension. “Stay sharp. Don’t give them an inch.”
"Fuck that, I'm not going back." The Devil stepped fully into the yard, loosed a bolt, and a horse shrieked.
“Fucking horse!” a woman’s voice rang out, sharp and furious, "Hynek, if that was you, I will wring your neck!" The Devil went pale, dropped his bow, and ran into the dark.
Zizka waved Henry down. “All clear.”
Henry blinked, confused, until he saw the Devil return, leading a horse. Beside him walked a woman.
She was darker of skin than the Devil, chestnut with hair to match, lean and tall in riding boots. Her hair was bound back, revealing a gash from hairline to brow. She should have looked marred, yet she was striking—sharp-boned, dark-eyed, lips pressed firm with restrained fury. Her beauty was steel, not silk.
Her attire confused Henry further. A long riding coat, its skirt split for the saddle, cinched tight with a wide leather belt. Beneath, patterned breeches peeked through, and her boots laced to the calf. The sleeves tapered at the wrists yet puffed at the shoulders—tailored, not borrowed. When the coat shifted, Henry glimpsed the flat line of a dagger hidden at her side. Stranger still was her closeness with the Devil. She looked at him with simmering anger, the stare of one long used to his decisions, yet beneath it a softness flickered—a familiarity no other man would dare draw from him. The Dry Devil snarled at the world, yet let this woman cuff him about the head with something like fondness.
“If you stare any longer, boy, I’ll cut your cock off,” the Devil snarled, seizing Henry’s chin. Henry quickly looked away.
“Hynek,” the woman said, her tone laced with quiet command, “at least the lad didn’t shoot into the dark. Let him be.” She offered Henry a kind smile before smacking the Devil's head with easy intimacy.
Inside the inn, Henry whispered to Zizka, “Who is she?”
Zizka chuckled. “Who do you think the Devil would ever be tender with?”
“His sister?” Henry ventured.
“No, you fool. Think.”
“His… wife?” Henry blurted too loudly.
“Yes, my fucking wife,” Hynek growled from across the room, glaring daggers at him.
Zizka smirked. “And how does the Lady of Kunstadt and Jaispitz fare?”
“How kind of you to use my not-official title,” she replied smoothly. “The lands fare well enough in my husband’s absence—and the coin, less foolishly spent.” She glanced at Hynek with the smugness of one who knew him too well. Henry sat back, still reeling. He had come to rescue a robber-baron for a friend, and instead found a pair whose closeness, sharp wit, and unspoken history left him both confused and awestruck. He would not soon forget the sight of the Dry Devil tempered by this woman, nor the way her presence seemed to soften the fury of a man feared across Bohemia.
“Agh, stop fussing over her, she’s built like an Ox.” The Devil received a clap on the ears for that, but smirked down at her all the same.
“Bastard as my husband is, he’s not wrong; it’ll just sting for a bit. But Kubyenka, you have not yet told me how my darling husband ended up in a cell without my knowledge?" The Lady rose and approached a terrified-looking Kubyenka, who sat on the bench opposite her, nursing yet another humongous jug of wine.
“T-that was an oversight on my part, and I am so-” Kubyenka was interrupted by the flash of a dagger being held close to his jugular.
“If he so much as sniffs a jail cell and you are not also there with him, you'd best pray to any God in existence I've been made aware of prior, or I will cut you from neck to navel. Do I make myself clear?” She raised an eyebrow at him, and Henry’s eyes widened when Kubyenka nodded. No wonder the Devil had fallen for such a woman; the robber baron stood with a wide grin plastered over his face, pure adoration in his eyes. She removed the dagger from Kubyenka’s throat and smiled at Henry, back to being the lady as she holstered it. “And who is this strapping young man?”
“Henry of Skaltiz, your ladyship,” Henry went to stand, but she waved him to sit down before moving around the table and sitting down next to him.
”Honestly, the ladyship thing is more of a power trip on my end that Zizka graciously plays into. I’m Anicka, you’ll be told I’m a prisoner of my horrifying beast of a husband, but don’t believe what gossip says, especially in the discussion of Lords and Ladies. Most of the time they’re full of absolute shite.” She reached over and grabbed Zizka’s ale before taking a sip and grimacing, “Jesus, we need to get something better brewed here.”
“My wife, the sudden critic of ale when she usually drinks any Bohemian piss you put in a mug.” The Devil joined them on the other side of Zizka.
“I’ll have you know that my time in Wencleslaus' court has refined my taste somewhat,” Anicka mentioned. Wencleslaus so casually that Henry almost spat out his drink.
“You’ve been in his court?” Henry coughed.
“Aye, Prague is quite the circus at the moment, especially with von Bergows' decided stance against him. I mean, allying with Toth? One would do well to stay away from that snake. I heard what happened in Skalitz, Henry. For what it’s worth, and that is not a lot, I am sorry for the tragedies that happened there.” She placed a gloved hand on top of Henry’s with a soft smile that Henry returned.
“It means more than you can know, thank you.” Henry looked down at the table, refusing to spiral back into thoughts of despair.
“Come on, lad, chin up. We’ve got to find your Lord.” Zizka reasoned, and Henry nodded.
“Which Lord is this?” Anicka asked.
“Lord Hans Capon of Pierkstein,” Henry said quietly with a sigh. He didn’t think it would be so utterly unbearable speaking Hans’ name, but the twisting feeling in his gut only worsened.
“Is that Hanush’s ward?” She asked, and Henry nodded, “Well then, I can help you, well, at least with whispers of where he might be. Von Bergow took him, right?”
“Indeed, he did. What trouble have you got up to this time? Katherine won’t be surprised when she next sees you.” Zizka grinned.
“Oh, shove off, the machinations of court are one of hushed whispers in a constant circle. Apparently, Liechtenstein has been looking very deeply into the disappearance as well. Jobst doesn’t appear to have asked him to, so I have no idea why, but after you’ve gathered a few others, he might be your best bet to find your Sir Hans.” Anicka was nudging the Devil under the table, who appeared to be falling asleep.
“What! Oh, it’s you. Thought it might have been one of these ugly fuckers. Well, I won’t stab you for now at least.” The Devil smirked, tight-lipped and exhausted.
“Thank you, Lady Anicka. You have no idea how helpful that information will be. I’m not surprised Sir Liechtenstein has his hands over this. Hopefully, the spymaster will remember me enough to tell me what he knows. I suppose if Jobst did know, he might have mentioned it at Suchdol. So this gives us a new direction, thank you.” Henry bowed his head and bid them goodnight. Zizka soon followed, hauling Kubyenka up the stairs in tow as he drunkenly stumbled.
“I am sorry about- well, you know what about.” The Devil reached over and took his wife's hands in his.
“All is well, at least now I'm here. How could you not send news, my love? I had to find out through my little birds instead of you or one of the pack.” She raised an accusatory eyebrow but gripped onto his hands in fear that he would fly away once more.
“I was a bit busy in fairness. Don’t get many messengers when you’re surrounded by four stone walls and a shit bucket.” He scratched the stubble on his cheek, “As for the rest of them, I have no fucking idea why they didn’t send word. I always told them you were the only port of call worth contacting.”
“I’ll have to give them a swift kick up the backside when I see them,” She smirked, and the Devil let out a hearty laugh.
“Oh, darlin, I think they’d like that just a bit too much for it to be a punishment. You’re better off with the silent treatment, if I know Adder, he won’t be able to bear being ignored.” His thumb brushed against the top of her hand. A more beautiful creature he had never seen, especially with that little smile on her face. God, he knew he’d see that smile before he died.
“I think you deserve a reward for being locked up for so long,” She rose to her feet and walked around the table slowly before sitting down on the devil's lap, feeling her stir underneath her.
“And what does the Lady have planned?” His hands made their way onto her waist, giving a little squeeze. She leaned down next to his ear and whispered-
“I might even let you touch me.”
“You evil witch.” The Devil exclaimed with a slap on her arse that was firm enough to result in a twitch from her and a smile.
“I have missed you, Hynek.” Anicka leaned in, deliberately close, her eyes locking with his. Her lips hovered over his for just a fraction too long, teasing, daring. She knew exactly what she was doing—and she enjoyed every second of it.
The Devil’s jaw tightened. That confident little smirk of hers, that brush of lips that threatened more than it promised—it was a challenge, and the Devil didn’t suffer challenges lightly.
“You always have to test me, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, with a growl that made her pulse spike. His hand lifted, sliding behind her head, drawing her gently yet firmly toward him. Not fast, not violent—yet charged with an authority she both knew and loved.
The kiss begins slowly, measured, almost a conversation. He lingered on her lips, tasting, exploring, waiting for her next move. Anicka’s fingers slid behind his neck, her grip confident, assertive—she wasn’t surrendering, she was meeting him, matching his force with hers.
They moved together, a rhythm born of years of knowing each other. Each press of lips, each tilt of a head, built anticipation. He brushed her jaw, tracing down her neck, and she leaned into it, her body arching, responding without hesitation. She loved that he was the Devil, and she loved even more that he belonged to her—and that she belonged to him.
Finally, he deepened the kiss, and it became hungry, urgent, yet still measured and neither rushed. They had all the time in the world—the slow burn of familiarity and desire stretching every second into an eternity.
When they finally parted, breathless, foreheads pressed together, Anicka’s confident grin returned. “You think you can intimidate me?” she teased.
The Devil’s lips curved, dark and possessive, his eyes blazing. “I don’t think, my wife. I know.”