by Carmel Rechnitzer
Endure! Daniella Dietrich repeated for the ten-thousandth time. For the ten-millionth time, maybe. Her life had always been a series of disasters, a forever slog through quicksand, a marathon of misfortune.
Endure! Just like she’d survived her bewitched childhood.
Endure! Just like she’d survived the War of the Cross!
Endure! Except this time, she was alone.
All her secrets had come unravelled, and the love of her life no longer stood by her side. Kaspar visited her cell, of course. Came to her, face heavy with distraught, unable to find the passion or words to condemn her. He’d sit across the iron bars, wept to himself while she pleaded. First she begged for freedom, so she could make this all up to him. Then for mercy, swearing she could at least support his cause. Then for condemnation, because hearing his voice, even raised in anger, would be better than nothing.
“Durchhalten!” she said, out loud from time to time, to chastise herself. Self-pity and despair would do her no good. She’d need to lock her feelings in a box and throw away the key. These feelings wouldn’t help her move forward. There had to be a way forward.
“That’s a good word,” mused Otto Streit. The pale, beleaguered young witch doctor visited her more often than Kaspar did… or perhaps came on his orders. His voice was just as off-puttingly crisp and cold as the first time she’d heard it. Whatever classical handsomeness his face held turned sterile in the eye of all observers. He was too neat, too orderly. He smelled of medicinal salts and chemical cleaning solutions – even the dogs found nothing human in him. Daniella wanted to tear his eyes out, lash out at him, make him feel like she felt – lock those feelings in a box and throw away the key!
“I’m surprised you’re allowed to speak to me. The others weren’t.” she said.
“I rarely say much to anybody, so I think they forgot to give me the order, ” Otto admitted.
Daniella waited… endured… the silence, not knowing if he had more to say. Quietly, he entered her cell and unpacked a satchel of medical supplies. Caringly, efficiently, he applied salve to her wrist. The skin was rubbed raw by blessed iron chains that locked away her sorcery. He only unlocked one wrist at a time, denying her the power to find his Fate string and pull it. Not that she would. She wasn’t desperate enough to do that, right? She wasn’t.
His medicines worked too quickly, soothed her skin too well. Her skin crawled in realization, and she tried to pull and shrink away from him. As gentle as he was firm, he kept a grip on her. He was cleaning her wounds with an unguent. A magic poultice made from the flesh of the monstrous and the dead.
“Durchhalten, my dear. The two of us must endure the irony,” he continued. “We both belong at the stake. But my necromantic salves kept hundreds of soldiers alive during the War. Keep Kaspar alive, and keep the Syrneth Silver Spine from overwhelming his mortal flesh. That which makes us sinners also makes us useful. Don’t give up hope.”
He finished his doctoring, but did not take his leave. He dug through his satchel, offered her a glass vial full of a suspiciously pinkish-red liquid.
“A test,” he explained. “This will dampen your sorcery. You’ll be sent hunting with Philip Hase. You’ve met, right? He’s a single-minded hunter. Too focused
to show you undue kindness… To judge you too softly. Show you can stomach what it means to be just human, less than what you were before.”
“And if I succeed?” she asked.
“Define success? If you catch your undead prey? You’ll do right by Theus. If Philip judges you as a worthy ally? They’ll allow Kaspar to let you out and about,” promised Otto. “That’s the better prize. But you’ll need to drink this daily. Little ironies. Just a little magic brew every morning, to keep the witchery at bay. We’re not sensible creatures, I’m afraid.”
““Durchhalten…” she toasted, and threw back the vial. It tasted like copper, burned like moonshine. She endured.
Endure! Daniella had never hunted without a string to pull on.
Without her sixth sense, even the heart of the Eisen district felt unfamiliar. The catacombs underneath were much less welcoming. The old caves of Syrne crisscrossed underneath the City of Five Sail’s streets, like veins spiderwebbing underneath skin. There was an order to it all – what that order was, why the caves were carved this way, only Theus knew.
The knee-high water was as chill as the touch of a devil. Glowing algae rendered it a bright blue and viscous. The usefulness of the light was outmatched by the frustrating goey-ness of the chthonic waterway. The mess soaked through her clothes. It wore down her strength, would soon stain her skin a fluorescent blue; but with no other choice, she pushed onwards.
Philip led their way, arming sword drawn in anticipation of ambush. Whether Philip planned on them being perpetrator or victim, Daniella didn’t know.
He hadn’t said a full sentence to her since she’d been released to his oversight. Instead, he commanded her like a hunting dog. Quite literally, using the same commands reserved for the hounds. Daniella thought it brave of him to do so, considering he’d also given her a sword. Merely three days ago (or had four gone by?), she would have stabbed him for the repeat disrespect and Kaspar would have approved. Today? Her metaphorical leash was much shorter than any hound’s. She should maintain her best behavior. But Philip had too much faith she would.
She looked to the walls for hope of a hint. The ancient Syrne carvings were faded, worn and smoothed away by a millennia of high tides. But decades of graffiti marked the walls. The writing ranged from simple teenage insults to navigational marks left behind from fighting during the War of the Cross. Unfortunately, there were hundreds of words, signs, and codes carved at random across every stretch of cavern. Any of these could be Philip’s lead, and he moved too quickly for her to analyze any pattern.
She squealed out a curse word when her ankle caught and twisted on something in the glowing muck. Philip didn’t even look back at her. Just barked, “Ruhig! Quiet!” and kept going. She really ought to have stabbed him for that one. He’d been twice as loud as her, and their sloshing wasn’t exactly quiet either.
Endure…
She limped behind him, desperately struggling to keep up the pace, and the new pain became just another in a list of endless things to put up with. Another sensory input to stonewall and ignore.
Finally, Philip caught his mark! Deep in the bowels of the City, as far from Theus’ reach as they could delve, they came upon a dead end stashed with bobbing barrels and boats. The makeshift wooden rafts were loaded with mismatched goods. The bolts of silk and jars of spices were the most valuable, surely. But the cheaper gunpowder and a crate marked POISON seemed more important.
Philip paid little heed to either. He wasn’t here to claim the smuggled prizes, but instead to capture the smugglers themselves. Two villains, one cloaked in shadow, one clearly a dead man walking. Philip issued the upright corpse a warning on behalf of Theus: “Stand down now, Lucas Martinez! Accept your death and receive His mercy!”
The two villains did not oblige, and drew their blades instead. What a blessing. Her bottled anger and despair were no longer… endurable.
Philip whistled and pointed left, siccing her on the dead man. He took off into the midst of the floating goods, chasing after the shadowy form. Daniella charged as well, but her target did not retreat into the miniature flotilla. He raised a rotting arm, duelists’ blade held at the ready, inviting her to strike. She did not need to be asked twice.
Fighting the undead was sweet relief. Blades flashed and cold water splashed in desperate violence. She let the dam around her heart burst, and fury flowed through every vein and capillary in her body. Scorn, betrayal, pain – what an arsenal she’d built! A quiver full of poisoned arrows. A cannon loaded with heartfelt grapeshot! Her body sang with the zealous ecstasy that only righteous violence could provide.
The walking Castillian corpse could not match pace with her. Could not compete with her ferocity. He made attempts to parry, riposte even. Whenever their steel caught in a bind, she overpowered him, and her blade would smash his saber out of the way. Her sword bit deeply into his shoulder, under his ribs, the thick of his thigh. At a certain point, he gave up on defense, allowed his muscle to swallow her steel, hoping the blade would lodge in his bones and give him a moment to strike. Eisen’s weapons were much too sharp for such a ploy. She tore him – it – to shreds.
“Daniella, help!” Philip commanded. He was a few steps away, knee-deep in catacomb sludge, on the deadly edge of being outmaneuvered. He was fighting a shadow, a darting creature of sorcery too fast and black and fleeting to track with the naked eye. This mystery assailant harried Phillip, slipped away from his blows, and danced between or over the floating goods. It always seemed a step ahead, unaffected by the melee, no matter what technique Philip tried. Philip was too used to being the hunter, being the predator, making quick work of his prey. He did not have the stamina to twirl, to trudge, to push and lead through the mess.
He called for help again, and she moved to assist. Moved the world to assist. Crashed through crates and burst through the barrels. Tried to clear a clean shot for Philip, with the last of the dead man crawling and clawing at her heels.
Thoughtless with rage, Daniella held out an eager hand to catch the shadowman’s string and puppet the devilish thing still. The magic didn’t come. The more of her sweat and blood she tried to commit, the worse her forehead throbbed. Otto’s unguent filled her guts with boiling tar and her throat with bubbling vinegar.
Last week’s Daniela would have lost consciousness at the overwhelming nausea and pain of the witch-doctor’s poisons. Today’s Daniella endured! Today’s Daniella took a head step forward. Today’s Daniella nearly ate shit and slipped into the waters as a corpse-arm wrapped around her knees in a wet tackle. Not much remained of Lucas – a split face, a severed spine, just enough of his limbs left to trip over.
Did anger overtake her? No, she was already deep in the throes of wrath. She willingly – knowingly – chose to toss her soul deeper into sin. She turned away from her desperate comrade and redoubled her efforts to eviscerate the corpse-man. Her sword chewed through algae, water, and undead flesh. Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut! And finally, satisfyingly, the crunch of her boot coming down on the skull, pulverizing it, sending the damned man’s soul into the waters, deep into the waters, out into the belly of the sea! Suffer in the Devil Jonah’s Locker, you worthless-
Philip made a dying sound. Not a pained roar, not a shrill scream of agony. A soft, surprised ‘oh’ as a rapier found and skewered his liver. Daniella turned around from her butchery. Saw the shadowman’s boot find Philip’s chest, kick him off the rapier’s point and into the water.
The wounded Philip could not find the strength to swim or float. His mouth, open to groan, flooded full of glowing waters. Daniella surged forward, chased by doubt. Was she a holy avenger, ready to cleave the shadowman in half? Was she an angelic savior, about to pull Philip back up to her feet? The shadowman sensed her indecision. It cocked a pistol at her, aiming at her forehead. Gave an order:
“Stop, madwoman! Stop this instant you melodramatic ox of a witch! Stop! Stop for one moment!” She grabbed a nearby something – felt expensive, intricate, who knew what it was – and tossed it full force at the voice.
“Shut up!”
The man said nothing as he dodged. The click of a pistol hammer cocking spoke loudly enough on his behalf. Was that enough to stop her, though? There was flotsam in the way. She could weave. She could duck and dodge, so long as she kept moving forward. She would be shot, dead before she heard the sound of the whizzing bullet. She should stop.
Could she endure her guilt if she did?
Daniella didn’t stop her charge.
She could not endure the rage at Philip’s dying. She could not endure the shame of her ostracization. She could not endure the tragedy of letting Philip die hating her, hating what she was in spite of who she’d always been. Let the shadowman shoot her – she would meet her Maker with a sweet smile of release on her lips –
“Daniella Dietrich, stop! He’s still alive! Stop and you can have him. Save him!”
The shadowman’s warm Castilian accent made a silky mess of her last name. But she recognized the voice. Lorenzo de Zepeda. She knew this scoundrel! A horn thief who’d stolen records, millet-grain, and gold from Kaspar’s army. Food and fortune meant to help the poor of the City. Food and fortune which Kaspar had personally promised to distribute during his occupation of the Forum.
Her husband’s soldiers spent days tracking Lorenzo down afterwards. To their shock, they came to find that Lorenzo and his wife? Ex wife? Wife-again? Maya… were distributing the grain to the poor and needy at four times the efficiency that Eisen could manage.
Confused and bewildered, Rena and Daniella tried to offer the two sleazeballs an opportunity to make peace and collaborate with Kaspar’s army. The two of them disrespectfully declined and fled, leaving well-fed orphans and well-funded widows in their wake.
“Drop your weapon! Drop it or I shoot! Stop and drop that sword and save him!” Lorenzo kept sputtering, backing against the wall, dragging the drowning Philip by the cloak. He sounded wounded too, terrified. Regretful, even. But he did not lower his pistol. She was going to die if she didn’t stop.
His trick worked.
Danilla stopped. The rage stopped. Worry for Philip flooded her heart as surely as catacomb water flooded her comrades’ lungs. She threw her sword away, heard it slash and disappear into the mess of upturned loot. Not only did Lorenzo keep his pistol level, his boot found Philip’s center of mass. He pushed down. Stomped on Philip’s chest, as surely as she’d stomped on Lucas Martinez’ skull.
“A friend for a friend,” Lorenzo spat, voice bitter and hateful. “Is it worth it? Eisen’s obsessive policing? Two lives given, and for what?”
Daniella pointed her finger back into the red slurry she’d left in her wake. “That fiend was your friend? Why were you consorting with the undead?”
“His name was Lucas Martinez, and he was my friend,” he answered. His voice cracked in genuine mourning. He was crying, just like she was.
“He was an insult to Theus,” she said, confused by why that wouldn’t factor into the two men’s relationship.
“And even if he was, what of it? Does Theus ask me to judge?” Lorenzo’s steeled himself in condemnation. He kept his pistol trained on her, but dropped the blade in his dominant hand. He wrapped his fingers around the cross dangling from one of his many necklaces.
“Theus calls on us to love and forgive His children,” Lorenzo spoke. His voice was as sincere and heavy as any sermon she’d heard Wilhelm Dunst give. “Lucas had his flaws, but he gave confession every Sunday.”
“He was the Devil Jonah’s plaything!” She insisted. “You Vattacines are insane!”
“You Objectionists know nothing of Theus’ love, and so help me, it shows!” Lorenzo called out. “I’ve spurned Maya. Divorced her! Three times! But Theus knows, I never threw her in a cage! Never apologized to the general public for loving her… it’s disgraceful – disgusting! – how Kaspar spoke about you at Kaiser’s Square, as if any of us had the right to know your business. And you still kill on his behalf! Made my friend into mincemeat on Kaspar’s traitorous behalf.”
Daniella had never felt so cold. Her life had been a marathon of misfortune. Her marriage being judged so harshly by Lorenzo de Zepeda, of all Theus’ fools and jesters, somehow cut the deepest.
“Shoot already! It would hurt less if you just shot me,” she said. More to herself than to him.
“You’re being honest, aren’t you?” he asked. His eyes blazed with rage, but unlike her, he kept his composure and control. With vicious pity on his tongue, he continued. “Which means my mercy will hurt you the most. Go, you dog. You mewling cur. Crawl back to your heartless husband’s kennels. Live a life more miserable than Lucas’ undeath ever was.”
Lorenzo waited a moment more, until Philip stopped his underwater struggle. Until the last bubble of breath popped at the water’ surface. Then Lorenzo retreated into the depths of the catacombs, gun pointed at her all the while. He had an uncanny knack for melding and melting into the shadows. Her unguent-dulled senses couldn’t make heads or tails of him, give her the truth of his tricks. Man or monster, it didn’t matter. She lost sight of him within moments.
“Durchhalten,” she said to Philipl’s corpse as it floated to the water’s surface. As if that word could offer either of them comfort now. Well, no. She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. Philip was dead, but she was alive, and that meant it was her duty to endure. He deserved a funeral. She deserved her punishment.
She slung his body across her shoulder, and realized she didn’t know which way was ‘out.’ Philip had guided her here with barely a word, and without him, she was lost.
“Durchhalten,” she cried. What else was there to do? Directionless, pulling Philip’s weight behind her, with her twisted ankle too numb to keep hurting, she began her directionless march.
“I can’t endure this,” Kaspar Dietrich finally admitted.
Throughout the Festival of Fools, his forces had triumphed. He’d arrested burglars, thugs, and thieves. Made himself popular with the partying crowd, which appreciated that someone in town made sure their homes and children stayed safe in the middle of this madness. He’d finally managed to show this rotten City the beauty of a just and righteous leader. Everyone enjoyed their fill of rambunctious, wine-addled joy and more importantly… understood their week of worry-free debauchery was paid for with Eisen discipline.
That victory tasted like ash in his mouth. He’d been talked into this mad test – into sending his ostracized wife into the catacombs – by priests and zealots convinced Daniella required a crucible to reshape her. By hateful morons who poured poison into his ears. Why had he listened to them?
He didn’t care if Daniella lied and hid her magic from him. He didn’t care what Theus had to say about it, much less Dunst. He loved her, and he needed her.
“I can’t endure this!” Kaspar repeated.
“Can’t endure what?” Rosine Friese asked him, looking up from a mountain of paperwork. His desk was a hopeless mess, and she’d been trying to sort his messages and memorandums for him.
“Being away from my wife for one more wretched moment,” he said. He pushed back from the table. His metal Panzerhand scraped and shredded the mahogany surface. His other palm, empowered by the Syrneth Silver Spine, with one vertebrae implanted through the bullet hole still open in the midst of his hand, accidentally squeezed the table’s corner into fiber and pulp.
“Thank Theus,” Rosine said. “This was wrong. All of it.”
“She’s a witch,” Kaspar said, knowing and still not believing it. “But I don’t give a damn. May the devils have my soul, Rosine, I’d rather have her love than the love of Theus himself.”
“A logical decision,” the schoolmarm confirmed.
“I have to find her. Make sure she’s alive. I have to apologize,” he began. His voice grew from weary to frantic as he continued: “I have to spend the rest of my life apologizing. I need to start right now. I should have started an hour ago! Days ago!”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all week,” Rosine smiled.
“How do we find her?” Kaspar asked, despondent.
“Quite easily, you fool,” she comforted him. “Let me fetch Kaiser Schnurrbart.”