Page 136 of Night of the Witch
Until now.
The horses that carry us are larger than any I’ve seen, but their eyes glow like amber, not devilish scarlet. Most of the guards are already mounted by the time Brigitta escorts me, Liesel, and Cornelia to wherethey wait. I see now why the Wild Hunt has the reputation of fear that it does. This is not even the full number of guardians the Well has to offer, but those gathered here are ferocious, dressed in full battle garb, leather straps holding plate armor, spears and swords gleaming.
Cornelia mounts a white stallion, heading to the front of the troops assembled. Brigitta brings me to a black horse with gold-painted hooves. Its long mane is plaited with glass beads that are somehow silent even when the mare shakes her head. Brigitta hangs back as I hold my hand out to the horse. She snuffs, the scent of clover filling the air, but then she bends her head low, letting me rub her nose.
I glance back at Brigitta, who visibly heaves a sigh of relief. “She’ll let you ride her,” Brigitta says, as if that had been in question. I start to ask her what her concern had been, but the woman strides closer to me. All around us, the other horses stomp, blowing puffs of breath into the chilled night air.
Brigitta moves behind me, her lips close to my ear, careful that only I hear her words. “This is Skokse,” she says. “The fastest horse we have, and the smartest. Our people are going to be focused on the fight. You, Otto Ernst, are not our warrior. You’rehers.” Brigitta gives me a significant look as she steps back, and I understand exactly what she means—one man on a swift horse can get to Fritzi faster than an entire army, should the opportunity arise. Brigitta and Hilde are close; my sister must have told her of what she knew I would want to do.
I swing into Skokse’s saddle, and I can feel the power of the horse under me, eager to ride. Brigitta mounts her own horse—a dapple gray wearing a red leather saddle. She raises her arm, and silence falls among the army assembled.
“Tonight we protect the Well by leaving the Well. We defend magic beyond our border. Tonight,” she yells, her voice ringing out, “we ride!”
She looks directly at me, eyes boring into mine, as she throws her armdown. I grab Skokse’s reins and dig my heels into her sides. All around me, fighters and horses charge toward the border of the Well. My senses are overwhelmed with it all—thundering hooves on all sides, the scent of petrichor and soft earth spraying up, the sharp snap in temperature from warm to frigid as we break into the Black Forest.
I am at once a part of something larger—this strange, wild hunt with nearly a hundred warriors and as many mighty steeds—and also utterly alone. I lean over Skokse’s body, my arms clutching her withers more than the reins, trusting the horse as we charge forward. My eyes squint through the darkness and the wind, and it feels as if there is no one, nothing in the world but me and my horse and our purpose. Skokse does not merely gallop through the Black Forest; sheflies. I keep my head low against her neck so that I don’t run the risk of being knocked off by a branch, but the horse knows the Forest well. Skokse does not hesitate as she leaps over running water, weaves between trees, and crashes through the undergrowth.
When we burst through the edge of the forest, I recognize the road where we met Johann and Dieter. Skokse’s hooves crunch through fresh snow. It takes only minutes to reach the path, go past the old, ruined castle and toward the edge of Baden-Baden. Although Skokse has pulled ahead, the others catch up with us here.
A battalion of hexenjägers stands stiffly along the road leading into the city. Baden-Baden is not large enough to merit a wall like Trier, but the soldiers make their own wall, spaced out at attention, black cloaks billowing, silver enameled badges glistening in the moonlight.
I pull on Skokse’s reins, slowing the impatient beast as I eye the hexenjägers. All around me, the other soldiers do as well, approaching carefully, weapons drawn. The hexenjägers have no right to be here; we’re well away from the diocese and the archbishop’s influence. Besides,Johann said Trier was in turmoil—why haven’t they protested Dieter bringing them all out here to the southern edges of the Empire? My hand drops to my sword hilt, but I don’t draw it yet.
Why aren’t they moving?
Over the horses, I meet Brigitta’s eyes. She was watching me, hoping, I think, that I could excuse this strange behavior. I kick Skokse forward, taking the lead, and Brigitta holds up an arm, keeping the others back as I approach alone.
The men standing before us are silent, their eyes hollow, their muscles oddly tense. As I draw closer, Skokse stamping with impatience, I can see the ropy tendons of the men’s necks sticking out. I swallow, uncomfortable at the sight.
Nearest me, the one closest to the road, is Johann. I lean over Skokse without dismounting, trying to meet Johann’s deadened gaze. The boy attempted to help us on the road; he was happy that Trier rioted against the archbishop’s terror. But now his eyes are unfocused, and even though every muscle in his body is taut, there’s an emptiness to him. A spider has found its way to his shoulder, and I watch as the creature crawls over Johann’s face, eight legs pricking over his cheek, and the boy doesn’t flinch. Bile rises in my throat as the spider crosses the bridge of Johann’s nose, up to his left eye, a thin line of its black leg crossing the red veins streaking the white eyeball.
Johann doesn’t blink.
But, I think, perhaps his eyes are focusing, even if they don’t really move. He’s not entirely hollow inside.
There is horror there, a raw screaming horror that cannot escape his mind.
“I have to save Fritzi,” I whisper to the boy. “But I will come back for you.”
I wheel Skokse around, racing back to the Wild Hunt. “I don’t knowwhy they’re frozen,” I tell her, “but this is Dieter’s work. No human can be this still.”
“Then it is a trap,” Cornelia says, pulling her white stallion up beside us.
Brigitta nods solemnly.
“We have to get past them.” I meet Brigitta’s eyes. Dieter has put these eerie human-toy soldiers to stand in our way. They will attack at any moment, surely.
“You go first,” Brigitta tells me. Cornelia starts to question her, but Brigitta shakes her head, arguing that speed is of the essence. Cornelia may be an elder and a priestess, but on the battlefield, it’s Brigitta who is wisest. Cornelia bows her head, agreeing that I should go on ahead.
“The youngest one—there,” I say, as I turn Skokse around, pointing to Johann. “If you can, save him.”
Brigitta scowls but nods. At that, I touch my horse’s side. Skokse responds immediately, a coiled spring waiting to launch, turning and breaking into a trot, wending around the stiff soldiers.
A few paces behind me, the forest folk follow. I’m about halfway past when a ripple goes throughout the crowd of hexenjägers.
“Attack!” one of them bellows, Jäger Kock, a friend, I recall, of Bertram’s. “Kill them all!”
The hexenjägers burst into a flurry of action, oddly rapid, given the stiff way they held before. Skokse easily dodges blows, and I use the hilt of my sword to smash into the skull of one that draws close. I don’t want to kill them, but I can’t let them delay me.
