Page 7 of Night of the Witch
I start walking toward my office, and Johann races to keep up. I insisted early on that the only way the hexenjägers could truly be efficient at purging evil from the diocese was through efficient communication, and it became my role within the unit to create that system of messengers. It is often a tedious task, and not without its trouble, but it also meansthat I am the first to know when the next burning will be and where the next patrols will be sent out.
So I know Kommandant Kirch left Trier with more than half our men, a sudden mission that had been prompted by necessity when a large and powerful coven had been uncovered. It must have been a surprise to the kommandant, who otherwise wouldn’t have left the city during an important time. I know he’s been obsessed with finding covens that still have elders; it’s no wonder that he would attack as soon as he heard, even if that left the city without its main hexenjäger forces.
And I already knew about the burning, scheduled for the solstice in a few days. We typically have burnings of one to two witches every few weeks, but the archbishop put a hold on them, intending to have one large burning at the end of the year to showcase the triumph of good over evil, letting the smoke of the bodies of burned witches scent the cold December air.
It is for these reasons that I’ve rushed to the city, cutting my own fruitless patrol short.
There is, after all, much to do when you’re about to help murder a hundred people.
Witches,I remind myself as I enter my office.They’re not people. They’re witches.
“But sir—” Johann lingers at the doorway, unsure of whether he is allowed to step inside the tiny stone room that serves as my office.
“What is it?” I demand. There’s alotto plan before the solstice, and I have no time for mewling boys who do not know what to do other thanhesitate.
“Kapitän Ernst, we have held the witches in prison for weeks. No burnings. It’s…getting crowded.”
“Yes,” I reply acidly, “when you don’t burn witches alive and insteadleave them in a cell, they do tend to not simply disappear. What do you want me to do about it?”
Truth be told, I dread the day. The streets will choke with the stench of rendered flesh. My stomach twists, although my face betrays no emotion.
All the Holy Roman Empire will see the smoke rising from Trier, and all will tremble with fear. Exactly as the kommandant wants.
Ifthe archbishop’s order goes as planned.
“If Kommandant Kirch does not come back before the solstice…” Johann starts, his words fading out as he tries to put a cohesive sentence together, “we aren’t sure what to do. Perhaps you could authorize a new location for the prisoners, or…” His voice trails off at my quelling glare.
I narrow my eyes, considering the options. “I’ll inspect the prison,” I say. It would not suit my plans if the prisoners were moved. I shove past the boy and march down the stone corridor. When I do not hear the younger man’s boots following my own footsteps, I bark, “Come along!”
Johann scrambles to keep up as I descend the massive winding iron staircase.
The headquarters of the hexenjägers is in the Porta Nigra—the Black Gate made by the Romans when they occupied the city-state of Trier hundreds of years ago. The building has been remade into a church, the upper level used by the blessed witch hunters.
But I continue down the iron stairs, winding round and round, dizzyingly descending past the church, deeper, deeper underground.
“Sir?” Johann squeaks, but I ignore him.
There is no part of Trier that is untouched by Rome. The Germanic nations are the HolyRomanEmpire for a reason—centuries have passed, but our stones were cut by Roman laborers, our streets mapped by Roman cartographers, our religion seeped into the people by Roman Emperors. Constantine the Great himself lived in Trier.
And his men carved out the aqueducts.
The enormous tunnel system under the streets of Trier is ancient but still good, designed to bring the clean waters of the Moselle River into the city. Not many remember it now, centuries later. There are rumors that the aqueducts are haunted, and Johann crosses himself as I approach the entrance underground. He truly is still a child.
The only ones who haunt the aqueducts are the witch hunters.
I hand Johann a torch, and he holds it while I use my flint to light the greased bundle atop the stick. I let him go first, and although the torch trembles in his hand, Johann enters the narrow passage, shoulders hunched but without any hesitancy to his steps.
Once inside, no light reaches through the tunnel. Cold water sloshes over our feet. Johann’s dim light barely flickers.
It doesn’t matter. I close my eyes, embracing the darkness. I know these routes better than anyone. Johann peers nervously into the side tunnels, shoulders hunched, eyes squinting.
What would have been a twenty-minute walk or more meandering through the winding streets above is a quick ten minutes through the aqueducts. The tunnel branches off and then opens up to a sort of subbasement with pillars of brick holding the floor above our heads. Stone steps lead to a door.
“I’ll never figure out these tunnels,” Johann says mournfully. His torch flickers as I fit an iron key into the door.
I glance behind him as he swings the torch idly. “Watch it!” I bark.
The boy jumps, nearly slipping on the damp floor.
