Copyright 2022, Gary McGath.
This story presents a fictionalized version of a real incident. It’s a standalone story, occurring before Thomas’s time but including a character from The Magic Battery. Also on this site in German translation.

The monk anxiously looked out of his coach, scanning the road and the woods for enemies. He had been granted safe passage, but what good would it do if assassins attacked him here, far from the cities? He’d be just one more robbery victim, and no one with a high rank would be to blame. It was May, and the heavy growth alongside the road could conceal attackers anywhere.

Riding in such luxury, as the sole passenger on a coach, was unprecedented but necessary for his safety. The coachman’s full attention was on the way ahead, and he said little. The monk had given him a false name and was glad not to be asked any questions, but he felt entirely alone. No, never entirely. He prayed, “Lord, I have done what I had to do. My soul is in your hands.” The words consoled him less than they should have. The coach traveled at a good speed, and bump after bump shook his bones.

As it slowed for a curve, he heard the coachman cry, “Stop! Stop!” The monk’s view directly ahead was obstructed, and he restrained his desire to lean out and look. The coach skidded, slowing down abruptly, and the horses whinnied in panic. He fell out of his seat as the vehicle came to a crashing halt. His left shin crashed painfully into a board. As he drew himself up, hoping no bones were broken, he saw a man holding his hands up, fingers toward the coach. Magic!

The mage wasn’t alone. Hoofbeats and human voices could be heard. In another moment the vehicle was surrounded by horsemen with drawn swords. The driver was armed but outnumbered. He called out in a shaky voice, “I surrender!”

Someone said, “We’ll let you go on your way. We just want the monk.” They weren’t mere robbers. The best he could hope for was a quick, easy death by having his throat cut. It was better than being taken to a dungeon and then burned alive. His chances of escape weren’t good, but there was nothing to lose. He opened the coach door, jumped out, and experienced terrible pain as he landed on his hurt leg.

He tried to run, but he could barely put one foot in front of the other. Two men got off their horses and grabbed him. Two more took his chest of possessions — not a very big one — from the coach. The mage spoke to the coachman, then he gestured at the wheels. The vehicle rocked slightly as it was freed from its magical brakes.

“Get going!” shouted one of the men. The driver took the reins and rode off with the coach.

All the monk could do now was accept whatever happened with such courage as he could manage. He could see now that his captors were six in all. By their dress, all but one were common young men, probably not soldiers. The two men held him firmly but not roughly. The mage, who appeared to be the leader, looked older than the others, perhaps forty, and more distinguished. He stepped toward the monk, smiling.

“Greetings, Martin Luther,” he said.

“You know who I am,” said Luther. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Where were you hoping to go?” The man’s tone was light and conversational.

“I was returning home to Wittenberg.”

“That would be a bad idea. You wouldn’t live long if you went there.”

“It appears I won’t live long now that I’m here.”

The mage smiled. “You could still live a while. Prince Friedrich would like it if you did.”

“Friedrich the Wise?” Luther said, surprised.

“The Prince of Saxony had us fetch you. I apologize if our method was alarming. Let the coachman spread the word that you were abducted and never heard from again.”

“Then you don’t intend to kill or imprison me?”

“Kill you, no. Prison — it depends on how you think about it. You’ll be in safety, and these men follow my direction.” He waved to the men who were holding Luther. “I think it’s safe to let go of him now.” They released him. Luther thought of bolting, in case this was just a story to lull him, but the pain in his leg reminded him it would be useless.

“Could I sit down, please? The coach’s sudden stop was hard on me.”

The mage took Luther’s arm and led him to a fallen log where they both could sit. The armed men withdrew to their own group close by. They opened the chest. “Now don’t steal anything!” the mage warned them.

“What’s to steal?” answered one of them. “It’s just clothes and food. We’ll split it into two bags so we can carry it.”

The mage turned back to the monk. “You showed tremendous courage in Worms, answering to the Church. ‘The tyranny of Rome.’ ‘I neither can nor will retract anything; for it cannot be either safe or honest for a Christian to speak against his conscience.’ A magnificent answer to parasites who pretend to have divine authority! I can see you in my mind, thundering when they expected you to cower.”

Thundering? If only this man knew how afraid he was. “I couldn’t do anything else. The Emperor Charles demanded my presence; I could hardly refuse. Once I was there, rejecting the truth of God’s scriptures would have taken more audacity than I’m capable of.”

“People everywhere have heard about your criticisms of the Church. They’ll have to reform, or else the Church will split into pieces.”

“I don’t want it to split. I want it to correct its ways. But if it doesn’t, who knows what may happen?”

The mage unwrapped a small package. “Would you like some bread?”

“Thank you.” The monk accepted a piece and chewed off a little.

“You’re modest, but many have found it safer not to challenge the Church’s practices. Selling miracles, for instance.”

“Miracles, they call them,” Luther said hotly. “They take magic, practiced by women, and sell such unholiness as ‘miracles.’ They take God’s free gift of grace and fill their pockets by selling it. They tell you that they can get your dead relatives into Heaven faster — for a price. A vile gang of thieves, pretending to be holy.”

“Indeed. But I suppose you don’t approve of my practicing magic either.”

Luther hesitated. He was in this man’s debt, and everyone was a sinner. “At least you sin honestly,” he said. “You don’t pass your sorcery off as God’s work.”

“We mages don’t consider it sorcery,” the man replied softly. “Scripture forbids sorcery. We work with a natural power.”

“You call on the ‘World Behind.’ A world of spirits, but not of God. Diabolical spirits.”

“If it has spirits, we know nothing about them. We don’t talk to them, and they don’t make their presence known. We just use a natural force. There are many forces in nature that people have discovered and found uses for. Lodestones. Acids. Extracts from plants. What we call magic is just one more. Not a miracle, but not diabolical. We mages study and use it. Women in convents use it to heal. Misrepresenting it is wrong, but is it wrong to heal people?”

What was this man trying to do? Satan laid traps everywhere, and Luther feared he was being drawn into one. “You haven’t said where you’re taking me.”

The mage relaxed, evidently glad to change the subject. “The Wartburg is a safe castle. You’ll be out of the reach of the Church and the Emperor there. You can stay there as long as you want, studying and writing.”

“Only as long as no enemies know that I’m there. You’re bringing me to a prison.”

“Think of it as walls to keep the world out, not to keep you in. I could put a spell on your face to change its appearance.”

“No! None of your sorcery!” He rose to his feet; the pain was still there but had abated a little. Trying to ignore it, he took several steps into the woods.

Suddenly the brush was much thicker ahead of him. Some vile magic, no doubt. He could make no progress, and one of the armed men caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “Don’t be rough, Franz,” said the mage. In a moment he was seated again on the log.

“Here you sit,” said the mage. “You can do no other. We’re bringing you to the Wartburg. The rest is up to you.”

He thought about the opportunity if he stayed cloistered there. There should be a translation of the Bible for German-speaking people. Few people had the money to buy books and the education to read, but people would hear the Scriptures read to them in their own language. Germans would learn what the Bible actually said, not just the Church’s “interpretation.”

Enforced withdrawal from the world would give him time to create that gift for them. He’d be able to create more writings criticizing the Church’s corrupt practices.

Yet wasn’t he really thinking about the chance to escape the stake? Wasn’t his real duty to be a martyr for God’s truth?
Was there any human thought or action that wasn’t motivated by sin? He couldn’t exempt himself. No matter what he chose, he couldn’t trust his own motives.

He could trust his rescuers even less. Prince Friedrich supported him for political advantage, to weaken Rome’s power. Now his supposed helper was a man who drew on powers from another world.

“Do you have a reason for being here? Are you simply a hireling, or do you have some aim of your own?”

The mage laughed. “A sensible question. I’ve tried for several years to stay out of public sight myself. There are people who’d like to watch me burn. We’re alike that way. The Prince’s agent found me in spite of my efforts, and he offered me a good reward for this task. He also hinted at what could happen if I didn’t take it.

“But I do have an aim of my own. I don’t like a world where all truth is given out by one authority. Knowledge becomes stagnation. Disagreement becomes a crime. The authorities become corrupt.”

“I know it,” said Luther. “Satan rules in Rome.”

“Truth flourishes only where there’s disagreement. I want to discover new things about magic, to find out new ways to use it, to learn more about its source. This can’t happen when it’s packaged as a miracle. Or when it’s denounced as the Devil’s work, for that matter. I don’t care whether you’re right or the Pope’s right. But when there’s more than one voice, there’s a better chance of discovering something new.”

So this was the key. “You want dissension for dissension’s sake!” said Luther.

The mage smiled, and his tone remained pleasant and conversational. “You could say that. I like it when people disagree. They can learn something, even if it’s just that there’s another point of view. We’re disagreeing right now — about disagreement. Don’t you find that interesting?”

“Where there’s disagreement, someone is in error. We only have one sure source of truth, and that’s God’s holy scripture.”

“And you disagree with Rome on its meaning.”

“We have an authority we can appeal to, and not a human one.”

“Written down by human hands. Understood by human minds.”

Luther glared at the mage. “I see it all now. You rescue me — or that’s what you call it — in order to play with words and drag me into Satan’s snare.”

The mage sighed. “The only place I’m dragging you to is the Wartburg. If you think I’m talking nonsense, I don’t care.” He called out, “Franz!” The man who had caught him before came toward them. “You’ll ride in back of Franz on his horse. If you give your word that you won’t try to escape or cause trouble, we won’t have to tie you up.”

Luther restrained his anger. “I give my word, as long as you conduct me safely to the destination you promised.” He got up, testing his ability to move around. “Don’t you understand? Satan is snaring you too, with dreams of worldly knowledge and power. He made an actual contract with a mage, granting him forbidden knowledge in exchange for his soul.”

“Don’t believe every rumor you hear,” the mage said with something like amusement, turning to fetch his horse.

“What do you know of such things? I have it on good word that it he did.”

The mage slowly turned around and looked fully serious for the first time. “Herr Luther, I assure you that I have never had any dealings with Satan, for magical knowledge or power or any other purpose.”

Luther took a frightened step backward. “You? You are Faust?”

“My apologies for not introducing myself before,” Faust replied, bowing. “Johan Faust, at your service.”

Luther looked around in a panic. “You gave your word,” the mage reminded him, “and you know you can’t get far.”

“Lord, save me from this peril!” The monk looked imploringly to the sky. All that happened was that Franz put a firm hand on his shoulder.

Faust, noticing Luther’s limp, helped him to mount Franz’s horse. Luther thought about jumping at the first good opportunity. What did his word, unknowingly given to an agent of the Devil, count for here?

“I really wouldn’t recommend trying anything stupid,” said Faust. “If you want to run away from Wartburg once you get there, that’s your concern.”

Then he understood and smiled broadly. “Satan’s snares are crafty,” he said to the mage. “He wants me to throw my life away in a hopeless escape attempt. Maybe you do too, I don’t know. But I won’t do it. I’ll ride with you wherever you’re taking me. Once I get there, you’ll see the start of a change that will shake the world. Well played, Doctor Faust, but not well enough.”

Faust shook his head and muttered, “Believe whatever you want. First Satan wants to get you to the Wartburg, then he wants you to never get there. I do hope you’re right about the change in the world.” He got on his horse and called out, “To the Wartburg!” The horses started down the road.

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Thanks for reading this story. If you liked it, you may like my novels The Magic Battery and Spells of War.