Page 138 of Night of the Witch
“Let them go, Dieter!” I bellow.
“Kapitän, Kapitän.” Even though it is a hundred voices that speak, they all, somehow, have a condescending inflection to them that is distinctly the kommandant’s. “How did you sneak past my men? You always were the cleverest little witch killer.” Another laugh, this one darker. “The cleverest little witch killer who never did kill a witch, did you?”
“You’ll be my first!” I shout.
The giggles from a hundred different throats, high-pitched and manic, are worse than the sarcastic chuckles. I weave through the people, trying to draw closer to Fritzi. Every step I take is blocked by another townsperson. I’m unwilling to cut my way through the crowd of innocents, but Dieter knows that he’s not only mocking me; he’s delaying me from reaching Fritzi.
A barking laugh that rings in different pitches but drips with the same sardonic bitterness on every voice echoes throughout the square, deafening. “She is not yours, Ernst. She is mine. Didn’t you see the way I branded her? It was aD, mein kapitän, not anO.”
I grip my sword, praying to find Dieter among the crowd. My hand grips the hilt so hard that my fingers ache, but there is nowhere for me to expel the hateful rage boiling inside me.
On the stake, Fritzi moans.
She’s not dead yet, I remind myself. I reach into the bag slung across my body, my fingers wrapping around the neck of the brew I made.It’s not too late.
Behind me, I hear the rising thunder of the forest folk warriorswho’ve come to save Fritzi, to protect magic. Hope surges inside me. For a moment, Dieter’s hold on the crowd breaks, and their bodies all bend forward, drooping as if they are puppets with cut strings.
He did not expect me to have reinforcements.
He has laid out traps—the hexenjägers, these townspeople—but I do not think Dieter truly expected to be met with a strong force. The forest folk were a sanctuary, not an army, and I doubt Dieter thought anyone would get past his first layer of defense.
He didn’t expect me to have friends.
Because he has none.
With a bone-jarring jerk, all the bodies of the townspeople simultaneously snap to attention again, each one raising fists or holding out tools as weapons.
The forest folk burst onto the square, having fought through the hexenjägers. Cornelia, astride a white stallion, is in the front.
“Don’t hurt the people!” I shout, hoping my voice can be heard over the thunderous arrival of the others. “They are being controlled!”
Brigitta’s beside Cornelia, and I see her eyes flash. She, at least, heard me, and she calls back a warning command to the others. Horses are pulled up short, hooves stamping on the cobblestone.
The priestess pulls out a length of bright red string, weaving it through her fingers. She raises the pattern to her eyes, scanning the crowd, then points.
“There!”she screams.
I do not hesitate. I charge forward, knocking aside the empty puppets of the townspeople. They fall as if they were dolls. Hidden deep in the crowd, I see an old person hunched over a cane, a brown cloak pulled over their head.
The person is eerily, emptily still, just like all the rest, but thereis not a flicker of doubt in my mind as I raise my sword and smash it down.
At the very last second, the cloak swirls as the person dives in the opposite direction. Off-balance, I stumble as my sword strikes the cobblestones.
A hundred townsfolk laugh, the sound an echo of Dieter’s, but too even, too measured. “Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
The brown cloak drops, and I catch a glimpse of pale blond hair.
The townsfolk move, their steps jerking like puppets, surrounding Dieter, separating him from me.
Cornelia looks through her strings again, and the army, now aware of what’s happening, all track her movements. “There!” she cries.
A dozen soldiers lunge toward a street corner blocked by a dense cluster of people protecting Dieter with their bodies, and the warriors fight as gently as they can, pushing through the crowd. The puppets, though, do not care about injuring either the forest folk or themselves. Their movements are jerky, but their bodies swing out, arms flailing, legs kicking, heads thrashing.
It will delay the forest folk, prolong the battle.
I whirl around at the scent of smoke, acrid and sharp. I don’t know if Dieter used magic or if he merely controlled the townspeople to do it for him, but the kindling piled under Fritzi’s stake sparks in flame.
This fight is distraction enough that Dieter cannot focus on anything more than pulling the invisible strings that control the people. In the distance, I can hear boots stomping—he’s called the hexenjägers to join the fight.
