directly at his throat. Instinctively the hangman lifted his club, deflecting the blade to one side. The larchwood split, but it did not break.
Jakob Kuisl rammed his elbow into the devil’s stomach, causing him to gasp with sudden alarm, then he ran over to the opposite wall. They had changed sides. Shadows were dancing across the walls, lantern and torch bathed the chamber in a reddish, flickering glow.
The soldier moved about, groaning in an almost lascivious way and holding his sword hand across his belly. Nevertheless he never for a second let the hangman out of his sight. Kuisl used the pause to look after his wound. There was a large gash in his doublet near his shoulder and blood was spurting out. Nevertheless the wound did not appear to be deep. Kuisl made a fist and moved his shoulder until he felt a stabbing pain. Pain was good; it meant that his arm was still working.
Only now did Jakob Kuisl have time to get a closer look at the bony hand of his opponent that had once caught his attention in Magdeburg. It actually seemed to consist of individual finger bones connected to one another with copper wire. On the inside was a metal ring. The devil had stuck the burning torch into this ring, where it was now swinging slowly from side to side. The hangman figured that other objects could also be attached to that ring. From the war he was familiar with different prostheses, most of them carved rather roughly out of wood. He had never seen a mechanical bone hand like this one.
The devil appeared to have noticed Kuisl’s stare.
“You like my little hand, eh?” he asked swinging the hand and torch back and forth. “I like it too. These are my own bones, you know? A musket ball shattered my left arm. When the wound became gangrenous they had to cut off my hand. I had them make me this pretty souvenir from the bones. As you can see, it perfectly serves its purpose.”
He held the hand up so that the light of the torch illuminated his pale face. The hangman remembered how the soldier had hidden earlier in the ceiling of the shaft. Only now did he realize that the man must have pulled himself up with nothing but his one healthy hand! What power lay in that body? Kuisl felt that he did not have the slightest chance. But damn it, where was Simon?
To gain time he continued his questioning.
“So you were told to mess up the building site, weren’t you? But the children saw you doing it, and that’s why they had to die.”
The devil shook his head.
“Not quite, hangman. The children had bad luck. They had been hiding down here when we received our instructions and the first portion of our money. Moneybags was afraid they might have recognized him. He gave us the order to make sure they would never talk.”
The hangman winced.
So the children had known the devil’s employer, the patron! They knew who was behind all of it!
No wonder they didn’t dare return to town. It must have been a very powerful man, someone they knew and someone they knew people would be more inclined to believe than themselves. Someone whose reputation was at stake.
Time. He needed more time.
“The fire at the Stadel, that was pure diversion wasn’t it?” he said. “Your friends set the fire while you slipped into town to steal away Clara…”
The devil shrugged.
“How could I have gotten to her otherwise? I kept my ears open. The boys were easy. After all the little rascals were hanging around outside. And sooner or later I would have caught that redheaded girl too. But little Clara was sick. She had caught a cold while snooping around, poor darling, and she had to stay inside…”
He shook his head compassionately before continuing.
“And so I had to figure out a way to make sure the dear Schreevogl family would leave their foster child alone at home. It was clear that this patrician had goods stored down in the Stadel. And when it burned, he and his servants came running immediately just as I expected. Unfortunately the little brat still got away from me, but now I’m going to get her. That is…as soon as I’m finished with you.”
He feinted a move with his saber but remained standing where he was, as if trying to seek out his opponent’s weak point.
“And the witches’ marks? What are those all about?” asked Kuisl, speaking slowly and without leaving his post in front of the exit. He had to keep the other fellow entertained. Talk, continue to talk until Simon finally came to his aid.
A shadow of confusion passed over the devil’s face.
“Witches’ marks? What damn witches’ marks? Don’t talk nonsense, hangman.”
The hangman was taken aback but did not let it show. Could it be that the soldiers had nothing to do with the marks? Had they been following the wrong track all this time? Did the Stechlin woman practice some witchcraft after all with these children?
Did the midwife lie to him?
Still, Jakob Kuisl continued to ask questions.
“The children had a mark on their shoulders. A mark just like the ones witches wear. Did you paint that on?”
There was a brief moment of silence. Then the devil burst out in shrill laughter.
“Now I understand!” he cried. “So that’s why you locked up the witch! That’s why you all thought there was witchcraft involved! What a bunch of stupid moneybags you are in the end! Ha! The witch burns, and all is well once more. Amen. Three paternosters on top of it. Why, we couldn’t have concocted anything better than that!”
The hangman thought frantically. Somewhere they had gone wrong. He had the feeling that the solution was very close. Just one more piece of the mosaic, and everything would fit together.
But which piece?
He had other problems for the moment. Where was Simon? Had something happened to him? Was he lost?
“If I am going to go to hell anyway,” he continued, “why not tell me who employed you?”
The devil laughed again.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, eh? Actually I could well tell you but…” He grinned viciously, as if he had suddenly thought of something very funny. “You know a lot about torture, don’t you? Isn’t it also a type of torture when someone is looking for a solution and cannot find it? When someone still hopes to know the truth even when dying and yet cannot find it? Well, that is my torture. And now, die.”
Still laughing, the devil feinted once, then twice, and was suddenly directly in front of the hangman. At the very last moment, Kuisl held his club against the saber. The blade still kept moving closer and closer to his throat. Standing with his back against the wall he could do no more than return pressure for pressure. The man before him had immense strength. His face came closer to Kuisl’s, and the blade with it. Inch by inch.
The hangman could smell the wine on the other man’s breath. He looked into his eyes and behind them saw an empty shell. The war had sucked this soldier dry. Perhaps he had always been insane, but the war had done the rest. Jakob Kuisl saw hatred and death, nothing else.
The blade was now only a hairbreadth away from his throat. He had to do something.
He let his lantern fall to the floor and pressed the soldier’s head backward with his left hand. Slowly the blade moved away from him.
I must…not…give…up…Magdalena…
Shouting, he gathered the last of his strength and threw the devil against the opposite wall, where he slid to the ground like a broken doll.
The soldier shook himself for a moment, then he was again up on his feet, saber and torch in hand, ready to strike again. The last of Jakob Kuisl’s courage seemed to fade. This man was invincible. He would always keep getting up. Hatred was releasing energy in him that normal mortals simply did not possess.
Kuisl’s lantern lay in a corner. Fortunately it had not gone out.
Fortunately?
An idea raced through the hangman’s brain. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? It was risky, but probably his only chance. Without taking his eyes off the devil, he reached for his lantern, still flickering on the floor. When he had it in his hands once more, he smiled at his opponent.
