Page 137 of Night of the Witch
Fortunately, the forest folk draw most of the attack, and the hexenjägers surge past me, swords drawn, charging at them. I urge Skokse forward faster, but not before I get a look at the eyes of my former compatriots.
They are all eerily empty and blue, not brown or hazel or green.Each man now has Dieter Kirch’s eyes. While they attack using the same skills that were drilled into us as youths in training, there’s an odd nature to the fight. I see one jäger slashing in the air, fighting an invisible enemy. Two others bump into each other, bouncing off their shoulders without any awareness of having come so close to an ally. They fight as if enchanted, as if they see something in their strange blue eyes that none of the rest of us can see. Their blows come low, at the horses’ knees rather than at their riders.
Dieter has possessed them, somehow, I think as I break through the last of the hexenjägers and pick up speed, galloping down the road toward Baden-Baden.He expected opposition, but not monstrously huge horses.
I wonder what the hexenjägers think they fight, what hallucination is infecting their minds.
With the battle on the road behind me, the small city of Baden-Baden spills out, blossoming into a myriad of smaller streets. I head straight to the town’s center square.
It issosilent.
Skokse’s hoofbeats are thunderous. My hands tighten on the reins, fear stabbing at my heart. It’s late, but notthatlate. And while Advent was a time of fasting and sacrificing and quiet self-reflection, Christmas to the end of the year is a time for joy and celebration and raising candles to cut through the darkest time.
There is nothing now but silence.
As I draw closer to the center of town, I see a series of wooden stakes along the road.
I pause to count them. Twenty black stakes, kindling now nothing but ash and soot at the base. Each one leads deeper into town.
It is a horrid trail made of the remains of innocent people burned as witches.
And it leads me to one last stake, right in the center of the empty town.
Fritzi is tied to an enormous pole made of yew, its pale color a stark contrast to the blackened stakes along the road. Her chin rests on her chest, her unbound hair swinging over her face, gleaming gold. For a moment—for a horrid, pain-wretched eternity—I think she’s already gone. But then she twitches, and even though she’s bound, even though she’s unconscious, the sob withers inside me. She’s still alive.
Through the veil of her loose hair, I catch a glimpse of dark metal. My teeth clench at the sight of the iron muzzle forced over and into Fritzi’s mouth, a painful violation of her body that works to silence her as well. A slight breeze blows through the square, and despite being nearly unconscious, Fritzi gargles a sound of pure pain. My eyes widen—the breeze was barely enough to disturb her gown, but—
Her clothing has scorch marks all over. The center of her dress is burned away, exposing Fritzi’s pale belly marred with black and red burns, the welts so painfully sensitive that the barest kiss of wind makes her writhe. Blood speckles her once-beautiful gown, which now hangs in threads across her body.
My blood boils.
I will take pleasure in smashing each of Dieter’s fingers under my boots for daring to touch her this way. I will relish in his screams as I rip the tongue from his foul mouth. And then I will take even greater pleasure in crushing his throat beneath my heel and watching the life leave his already soulless eyes.
“Oh, look!” A male voice calls out, mocking me. Skokse prances nervously, as if she also knows that Dieter is a more formidable foe than any she has ever faced before.
I dismount, looping my reins on the pommel of the saddle so theydon’t drag and catch. “Go to Brigitta,” I tell the horse, somehow confident she can understand me. “Lead them here. Hurry.”
As soon as I take a step closer to Fritzi and the stake, Skokse turns, neighing, hooves clattering over cobblestones so violently that sparks erupt. The horse is gone in seconds.
Send help, I pray, to my God, to the goddesses, to any power that will listen.
I draw my sword and strain my eyes to see into the shadows. I expect Dieter to face me. I expect one man to approach.
Instead, hundreds do.
Their footsteps make the ground rumble—they are in sync, perfectly moving as one. There are old men and women who stumble—they should have a cane or an arm to lean on, but don’t. There are children, Liesel’s age or so, their paces oddly elongated to match the tread of the others. There are adults. A huge man with biceps the size of a tree trunk, probably a blacksmith. A slender woman I think I recognize from the market when we first passed through Baden-Baden. Another dusted with flour, another wearing a butcher’s apron. Hundreds and hundreds of people emerge from the alleyways, skulk down the streets, pour from the buildings, all walking in even steps, all wearing the same empty, blank expression, eyes drooping, mouths slack.
Dieter is a puppet master, using these people as his unwilling army.
Movement on the stake makes me whirl around, my attention on Fritzi. She stirs, barely conscious. “Fritzi!” I shout.
Every single person turns as one.
My heart seizes in terror at the abstractness of it all. And then the townspeople speak.
Each person says the same words, at the same time, with the same inflection. The sound of it is deafening, rattling my bones. And althoughevery voice is unique—cracked and old, young and high, deep and weary—the words are Dieter’s.
“Look at the insignificant traitor, come to fetch his witch,” the hundred voices say as one.
