Chapter Thirty-six:
The next morning, harsh sounds in the streets jolted me from slumber, horses’ hooves and men’s boots pounding upon the dust in a mad rush to the closing fray. Augustin’s hands cradled my face shortly after my eyes opened to blink fitfully at the sun lighting the bedchamber. Its atmosphere was oddly peaceful, contrasting with the noise of war outside.
“I fear that I cannot welcome you to life this day, my swan,” my husband told me, his countenance sad as he leaned down to kiss my lips. “Ruin has descended upon us in the night, for the vagabonds have joined with the Prince’s forces in a suicidal attempt to protect the gates.” His eyes drifted toward the windows, a sour expression marring his gorgeous features.
I stretched with a moan, then inquired sleepily, “What, did you go outside already and take a look?”
“No, I have not left your side,” Augustin answered, his eyebrows coming together defensively. “My hearing is far sharper than yours, and this house is not far from the western gate. Our enemies have chosen to attack there first, for its fortifications are less impressive than those of the other gates.”
He had a point. I knew that the western gate had only one door with a single lock and two iron bars. During the days of prosperity, the Prince had closed that gate last and opened it first, to accommodate the traders coming from Schwabia and the Rhineland. I thought of the gate that I knew best—the one with the drawbridge that spanned the Isar—and I sat up in bed with a gasp.
The ice within me detected a strong presence of water, not the rain evaporating from the gutters but a flowing stream, a grand expanse. “The Isar,” I whispered, freezing upon the bed and fearing to blink, lest its waters dry again. I could hear it, sense it in my spirit, chattering over rocks, around reeds, returned to its home.
“Yes, it appears that last night’s tempest freed it from the shackles of the Toteheri,” Augustin said with a nod. “Therefore, I doubt that the Saxons shall bother with the eastern gate until last, for the river has drawn a border across their battlefield. There is a possibility, also, that if those Saxons and heathens who camped across the river choose to rejoin their brothers-in-arms for their triumph, some Teutons may be able to flee once the city has been breached.”
My eyes widened as I considered this. “They’d just have to lower the bridge, or use their elements to cross the Isar, then run south to the Alps.” I paused, my gaze upon the windows, beyond which I could hear frightening shatters and cracks. “Maybe that’s how the Prince will get away with the last of his soldiers. Maybe they’ll flee to the south once the Saxons set Muniche aflame. Are they chucking stones at us now?” I frowned at the windows.
“I would assume so,” Augustin answered, his expression grim. “You should pray, my dear Swanhilde, that they break through the gates swiftly, or you may fall prey to a ponderous rock from above. I do not know if I have the power to deflect such projectiles.”
I shivered a bit, though the room was warm and sticky. I pushed the blanket back and rolled toward the edge of the bed with the query, “Should we head down to the kitchen and meet Freia for breakfast?” I thought of the vegetables we had saved the night before, hoping that they had not rotted with the heat. They would likely be the last food we would taste until this madness had ended, unless Freia had found any more produce in her garden this morning.
Before I could place my feet upon the floor, Augustin’s hands grabbed me from behind, dragging me bodily back onto the bed. His eyes blazed with lust as he thrust me down, straddling my naked body with the coarse words, “I am not done with you yet, Swanhilde, if it all ends today.” His mouth covered mine before I could respond. In an instant, my spirit danced with fire again while my heart pounded in ecstasy, my body twining with my immortal master, finality intensifying our fervor, heightening our satisfaction.
We did not leave the bedroom until noonday, when I weakly begged Augustin to show me mercy before his violent sex killed me. My husband sealed each cut his claws and teeth had made, and I summoned my ice to cool the bruises from his powerful hands. He helped me clothe myself in a mauve hooded dress laced with purple ribbons.
When I made my way to the washing table for one final cleanse, I snickered in restrained irritation at the sight of my reflection in the mirror—a tired woman in her early forties with her neck and throat covered in bite marks. “I look like a desperate harlot,” I complained as my husband drew a comb through my hair.
Augustin laughed a vulgar laugh. “At least your clothing hides the majority of the signs of our union. I would like to see the reaction of the knights, should they catch a glimpse of your arms and legs . . . or your breasts.” He pressed his mouth upon my neck, his teeth gnawing on my skin without drawing blood.
“I look like I had a tryst with a vampire, not a Teuton,” I grumbled, prompting Augustin to murmur erotically. I swatted him playfully and rose from the stool, shooing him to his own pile of clothing with the words, “Quit seducing me, or I’m never going to be able to face this destruction properly. At this rate, I’ll either be laughing hysterically or kissing you non-stop.”
We left the Denlinger house behind us forever as the cathedral’s bells tolled None. Augustin carried his own bundle along with a small pack of Freia’s. She had clad herself in a plain green dress and sensible shoes for her impending trek, for I had informed her in no uncertain terms at lunch that Augustin would lead her to safety once Muniche had fallen. Thereafter, she had gathered up a few extra dresses, a thin blanket, bundled herbs and soap, the final bottle of wine, and her cherished flute—all that she wished to take with her on her upcoming journey. Freia left the front door of her house unbolted for the sake of any remaining vagabonds, and we struck out as a group for the town hall, intending to ascend its highest spire, which boasted a good panorama of the city.
We encountered a fair amount of destruction from the falling stones on our way to the city hall. Several houses that belonged to families Freia knew had lost their roofs and parts of their walls, huge boulders that seemed to emanate a deadly dark aura sticking out from some of the ruins. We had to take the next street over at one point, for a massive projectile had landed directly in our path earlier in the day, the ground around it blackening progressively. We saw very few stragglers on our trek, for it seemed that every living soul left in Muniche had joined the Prince’s forces at the walls, clashing against the Saxons and their devilish allies.
We said little when we entered the town hall, which had escaped damage thus far due to its central location in the city. We passed by the wounded warriors without a backward glance, although I sensed Freia’s light reaching out to them, seeking to alleviate their misery. Many of them had already died, their flesh tarnished with putrefaction.
Augustin deposited his bag and Freia’s at the base of the stairwell to the primary tower, stating rather blandly that he doubted anyone would disturb their wares, since those who rested in the building could hardly move anyway. He scooped me into his arms before I could protest, holding me tightly and mounting the staircase with Freia trailing behind.
We sat together for a long while upon the highest windowsill of the spire. A light Alpine Föhn caressed our cheeks as we witnessed the fall of Muniche. The Toteheri had broken the western gate in pieces and set houses and buildings afire left and right, spreading to the north and south first, slaying any stray Teuton who happened across their path. The Saxons came in behind their demonic legion, pursuing the last remnants of the Prince’s army as they fled from house to house, engaging their enemies in close combat.
Augustin commented on several occasions that he wished to be down there with them, for he wanted to test his swordsmanship against that of both the Saxons and the Toteheri. Freia sat close to my right side, her hand grasping mine, her tears falling upon the stone floor when the arsonists reached her family’s house. I wept with her as we watched our memories disintegrate into ash.
My thoughts turned back to the Thaden estate on the far side of the Isar. I knew that some of our enemies had entrenched themselves there, and I wondered whether they had already burnt it to the ground, whether the Toteheri had sewn its fields with death.
Thank goodness I convinced all of the vassals to leave, I thought, blotting my tears upon the flared sleeve of my dress. Though I’m sure some of the men are here now, dying all around us . . . following Prince Otto’s path to destruction.
“Swanhilde.” An unexpected voice aroused me from my bleak reverie, and I looked up to see the Eihalbe that I knew best hovering over the city about a meter away from where I sat upon the windowsill. I sensed Augustin’s body stiffening to my left, and I heard Freia sniff to my right, her tear-stained face hidden in her hands. I gawked at the Eihalbe with ice-tinted eyes, the fact that it had called me by name taking me completely off guard. I knew not how to interpret its salutation.
The fairy’s prismatic eyes remained fixed upon me, as though neither Freia nor Augustin existed in this space where we had met. To my horror, I saw its form flicker, an odd translucence enveloping its silvery body. “They have come for me,” it said, its face cracking with pain.
It took me a second to translate its statement, but then I remembered what it had told me when it visited my bedroom several months before. “The Teuton traitors? They’ve come to cut you down?”
“I wanted to see you . . . with him,” it whispered, its eyes sliding from me to Augustin, who had wrapped his right arm around my waist, as if to protect me from a fairy’s wiles. “I wanted . . . to see this.”
“Augustin, you need to go to the Thaden oak now!” I burst out, turning my upper body to face him. “They’re in spirit form, but I know you’re strong enough to stop them, to kill them even apart—”
“No,” the Eihalbe interrupted me, lifting one wavering hand in my direction. “It is my time.” The fairy shuddered all over, its glimmer dimming into gray. Then it locked eyes with my husband for a lingering instant, and I heard Augustin exhale in what could have been resignation. “It has been an honor,” it gasped, looking into my eyes one final time.
Before I could react, its eyelids slid shut, and its wings stilled. A strange pop pierced the air, and the fairy disintegrated just as I cried out, “What’s your name?”
It was too late. The only Eihalbe who had ever addressed me by name was dead, and I would never know whether it had a name of its own. A heavy weight of sorrow crushed me, and I crumpled against Augustin’s chest, tears of ice seeping from my eyes. “Be still, my swan, be still,” I heard him murmur to me, his arms holding me tight against him. “Its time had come.”
It took me a good while to compose myself after such a horrific encounter. Strangely enough, the Eihalbe’s death struck me more soundly than the cries of the striving Teuton warriors. I remembered what it had said before, that the Prince had no care for the fate of the silver oaks. We had to do better than this.
Once my tears had run dry, I nestled myself against Augustin’s chest and quietly asked him to hunt the Teuton traitors down and slay them in the most horrid way possible. “I think you should sacrifice them to Wuotan and chop off their balls first. Only cowards chop down trees while in spirit form.” Freia echoed my thoughts, and Augustin’s chest rumbled as he vowed to root up the bastards who had betrayed their people.
Eventually I rose to my feet after over an hour of sitting, slipping out of my husband’s arms to stretch my stiff limbs. Meanwhile, Freia leaned forward to squint in the direction of the eastern gate, far across the city from our perch. “What . . . are they doing?” she queried, sounding perplexed, her fingers winding around the sill.
Augustin stood and narrowed his perfect eyes toward the eastern gate. A small group of Teuton warriors had gathered upon it, their weapons spread out before them, their gazes fixed upon the tallest among them, who stood poised upon the wall like a god, gesturing with his right hand. In the midst of my stretching, I saw my husband’s body stiffen. Smoke began to rise from his shoulders as he glared toward the group upon the gate.
“The murderer and his highest ranking knights . . . they cut their veins . . . sprinkling their blood upon the stones . . . setting it aflame . . . while the murderer speaks a solemn oath . . . the keys in his right hand . . . in Wuotan’s name!” Augustin’s voice broke. His fingers dug into the stones of the windowsill with a sizzling sound; I heard the stone crack. Freia gasped, and I took a step forward for a better look myself.
And Augustin said, his tone laden with disdain, “He is cursing the city.”
. . . An infernal agony tore through my chest, cutting my heart in two, chains of iron locking upon my soul, crucifying me upon a cross of treachery. Fire drove me to the ground. My knees buckled, and I crumpled upon the stones, an indescribable torment choking me, ravaging me, binding me. My spirit screamed, shooting to the sky on leaden wings, dragged down to the abyss as a bizarre omniscience obscured my vision, showing me everything, yet blinding me to the shards of who I had been.
My life . . . I saw it all . . . pulsing . . . throbbing . . . my veins a network of dirt streets . . . my blood a seething mass of humanity—special humanity—beaten down, slain, destroyed by a cancer . . . eating outward from one of my four arteries . . . burning my body . . . its members smoldering, one by one . . . my lungs the river, gasping for air tainted with death . . . my blood spilled, pouring like a fountain . . . my soul trampled, forgotten, raped . . . cursed.
. . . My heart . . . .
. . . It was tied up in those four arteries . . . four ruined gates . . . all leading back to those keys, those keys held by a human soul . . . a red fire . . . a man.
. . . And he had cursed me.
. . . He had forsaken me.
. . . He had left me to the dogs. To the Saxons. To the fires of hell.
. . . I was lost . . . homeless . . . raped . . . destitute . . . a whore . . . .
The screams that had wracked my spirit at last burst upon the mortal world, my voice splitting the sky apart in a cry of infinite betrayal: “RAPE! The TRAITOR has FORSAKEN me!!!” I howled, my hands clawing at the air, at my own hair, tearing, ripping, begging for physical pain to erase this spiritual torment.
“NOOOO!” I screeched, my hands falling upon the stones, freezing into ice, images of carnage splayed before my eyes, of my own deterioration, my destiny. “You BLEED upon me! You BURN me like a harlot! I have served you FAITHFULLY, on my KNEES before you, and you repay me with TREASON!! WHY?!” I wailed with a mad fury, icy tears streaming from my eyes, my shouts resounding throughout the city, reaching the far corners of my soul, pleading for a savior.
. . . And there was no response.
No love. No sympathy. Just nothing.
He had fled and left me to die. A lamentable fate. Finis Muniche.
I felt the creeping death sink into my soul, ripping my life from me with tedious precision, the blood of my warriors choking my lungs, flooding my river, extinguishing all hope. My sun eclipsed; my soul fell into a flaming chasm wracked with unspeakable anguish. I saw nothing but destruction, remembered nothing but this breaking heart, this disowned spirit, doomed, blighted. My hands scraped the stones, their shards piercing my skin, leaving traces of blood as I wept frozen tears upon this cursed ground. I was dying . . . raving . . . alone.
After an interminable black oblivion rife with blood and flames, I sensed a presence with me at last, someone calling out to my waning soul, reaching for my ruined heart. A new fire touched me, a kinder one, not from my cankered arteries. A voice pierced my hysteria, spoke to me from afar, from a time I could not see . . . from behind the veil of the burning city . . . speaking pleas I could not understand. He repeated a name that was no longer mine, begged for a soul vanquished by a stronger force—the power of the whole locked upon my heart forever.
The tortures of plundering, raping, slaughtering, blazing—these consumed my maddened soul. I writhed upon the unyielding stones, screaming for the one who had abandoned me, begging him to return, to heal my wounds, to ease my pain . . . to place those keys upon my heart so I may remember love again.
Strong hands restrained my paroxysms at last, though my eyes could not see their source, my ears still deaf to the voice urging me to be calm—for it was not his voice. No one but my Keyholder could save me now. I sank into a delirium of weakness, an unfamiliar light attempting to pierce my soul, the taste of wine upon my bleeding lips, granting me no relief. That strange fire still stroked my soul with a disturbing tenderness, its accompanying voice murmuring in seductive tones, an adulterous hand closing upon my heart, trying to tear me away from the duty that bound me . . . away from my dying people . . . away from my Keyholder.
My eyes blinked, and my vision returned with the abruptness of getting struck by an oncoming train. I saw a dusty bottle before me, held in the delicate hands of a woman, her eyes glinting amber as she coaxed me to drink. And behind me, I felt that fiery wraith, a black-clad priest, his arms imprisoning me, his right hand pressed upon my heart with incredible might, his soul bent upon raping me in the realm beyond this world, rending me from my traitorous beloved.
A feral cry burst from my lips, and the infinite legions of Muniche reinforced my feeble muscles, breaking me away from this ignoble phantom, thrusting me back against the stone wall of a tower. My ice froze my body in an impenetrable shield, and I screeched, “STAY AWAY FROM ME!!” A hiss escaped my lips, and I was ready for a fight, ready to defend my dying city, though it was far too late.
I heard a feminine gasp, and the brilliant soul who had dampened my mouth with wine took a step backward, toward the window through which I saw smoke rising to the darkening sky. “Swanie?” The woman’s eyes had dulled to a natural green, searching my face earnestly, her dress dirtied, her right hand still clutching the bottle of liquor.
But my attention was diverted in an instant by that dark specter, his face pale and looming, his menacing hands reaching for me again. “Don’t touch me!!” I warned sharply, my icy fingers curling into claws, my eyes crystallizing.
The demon halted, a shocked expression upon his face, and the woman said to him, “Wolfgang . . . what can we do . . . to help her? Has she gone mad?”
“No.” My foe’s voice was deep, resigned, but he continued to stare at me, an unmistakable threat, his fiery eyes raking over my body, my soul. Wanting to rape me again. “Her city is dying, and she cannot survive this destruction . . . not unless the soul that is Swanhilde can reassert her will, her tenacity . . . which may prove impossible in light of Muniche’s death throes.”
The name Muniche slashed my soul, prompting me to wail again. I collapsed upon the stones, my defenses failing, the fires scorching my bones, the necrosis choking my lungs, veiling my sight. I felt the Toteheri rape me again, thrusting their swords deep into my womb, spilling my bowels upon the earth, casting my pearls to the dogs. I moaned as death reached for me anew . . . and two burning hands locked upon my face, pulling it up from the ground. An alien compassion struck my soul, caressing my heart, pushing the pain aside with an effort that could not have been human, for it smelled of the grave.
“Swanhilde, look at me. Please. I know you can hear me.” My blinded eyes wheeled. My body tensed in a final resistance against this dead demon who called out to the human soul that Muniche had conquered. “My darling . . . my swan . . . I love you. I love you. Remember me . . . feel me . . . I’m your husband. Your husband.”
My lungs gasped for air, my consciousness ebbing as my life bled upon the stones. That stranger’s hands tightened upon my face, his tone growing more and more urgent, desperate. “Please, Swanie . . . Muniche . . . I am here with you. You are not forsaken . . . you are not going to die . . . I love you . . . your husband loves you.”
His face coalesced in my vision at last, tears streaming from his light blue eyes, soaking his black robes, his jaw trembling, his dead blood pulsing in his neck. I could sense no malignancy in his aura, only compassion, concern, love. Two words he had said revolved in my tortured mind, bringing me back to some semblance of reality, of a single soul: Muniche . . . husband . . . .
“I have no husband.” The phrase came out mechanically, without emotion. “My Keyholder has deserted me.”
“That damn Keyholder is not your husband.” Frustration glinted in those moist blue eyes as they held mine forcefully, refusing to let go. “I am your husband, and I would never forsake you. Remember me . . . feel me . . . know me. I am your lover, for nearly twenty-two years now.”
Confusion entered my mind, superseding the anguish for just long enough when the dead priest spoke the impossible words: “Swanie, I know you remember. I am Augustin. Augustin.”
Augustin . . . . The name shot through my memories like a meteor, and a tiny cry escaped my lips as my true self awoke again: Augustin . . . my lover . . . my priest . . . my master . . . my demon . . . my husband. The Cursed One . . . the world of dreams . . . the cottage by the Rhine . . . the candlelit cathedral . . . the sapphire ring . . . the promise to love each other for all of eternity . . . those incredible nights of passion, the impossible union of fire and ice.
“Augustin?” I spoke his name tentatively, shakily, my voice sounding like a child’s. He saw the recognition in my eyes and pulled me against his chest with a strangled cry, his tears soaking my hair, his arms enclosing me in raven’s wings. My body trembled, and my mind raced, trying to sort everything out logically after a long interlude of insanity.
“Augustin,” I choked, the pains of the dying city stabbing me afresh, “what’s happening to me?”
He cradled me in his arms, his left hand brushing my cheek, lifting my face toward his. “Muniche has chosen you to take the Lady Maria’s place,” he murmured gravely, his eyes as tormented as I felt. “She must have died when the murderer cursed the city, with his trusted knights . . . and the soul of this condemned stronghold chose you to replace her . . . for you signify the bridging of two eras—the hope of the future and the wisdom of the past.”
His careful explanation struck a chord within me, and I realized that I should have expected this from the start. Lady Muniche from my era had died the very night I had come to the past. Someone needed to take her place, too.
“The city is taking over my body and soul,” I whispered, shivering at the recollection of those black hands of death raking my heart, the Saxons eating me from within. “I can feel it all, even now . . . the fires . . . the blood . . . the pillaging . . . the broken stones. But it’s not as painful now, as it was at first. I think it’s killing me.”
“I know.” Augustin’s fiery lips touched my forehead with bruising force, and he added, “I have shouldered a portion of your burden myself, as far as I am able, for our heart-bond remains, though the city’s hold is far stronger. I tried to break Muniche’s chains . . . at first. But I should not have. I cannot fight destiny.”
I closed my eyes as I remembered the nails tearing through my heart, trying to sever the connection Muniche had formed with me, binding me forever to her soul, to her Keyholder—until I entered the gates of eternity. I thought of the Prince, cursing the city walls without thought, without care, then running away, fleeing to the mountains to save his own life, leaving me alone. He had shirked his duties, turned tail in the face of certain death . . . but he was still my Keyholder. My soul longed for him now, though I lay in my husband’s arms, weakness numbing every part of me.
“But why did Muniche take me, when I’m already married?” It seemed that fate wished to spit in my face. Now Muniche pulled me toward the Prince, away from his cursed brother, the man who knew how to love faithfully, fearlessly.
“Holy matrimony is not enough in the eyes of Wuotan, it seems,” Augustin replied shortly, a sneer upon his lips. “Muniche belongs to him now, for it has been declared accursed by burnt Teuton blood. We are destined for misery, I fear.”
“He should not have done this terrible thing.” I cast my gaze around the tower, noting the two bags someone had retrieved from the ground floor while I had ranted, the window with the view of my crumbling city, Freia standing against the far wall, her kind face anxious as she smiled at me. I managed a feeble smile in return, then shook my head.
Thoughts of my Keyholder consumed my mind, sending pains of betrayal through my hurting veins. “My Keyholder cursed me . . . he hates me . . . his love for me has burnt out.” Tears welled in my eyes, and a weak moan pealed from my lips.
Augustin’s lips touched mine softly, his fire seeking to impart some vitality to me, though his dead body had none to offer. And he said fiercely, his eyes glinting with passion, “I love you, Muniche, for you are my precious Swanhilde.”
And the horrid words left my lips as the chains of the city bound my soul in an indestructible cage, confining my free will to love, tying me to a man who had left me to rot. “I’m sorry . . . Augustin . . . but your love is no longer enough.”
He cringed away from me, his expression stricken. He jumped up from the floor, shaking his head in firm disbelief. I rose to my feet in the same moment, wishing I could call my heresy back, knowing I could not.
“Swanie, our love must be enough,” Augustin gasped, his voice hoarse. “Muniche’s influence cannot be so strong. Our love has withstood Wuotan himself . . . surely it cannot fall prey to the heartless soul of a city!” He gaped at me, his expression incredibly hurt.
Something else struck me then, and more sacrilege fell from my lips, aided by the agonies of Muniche, stabbing my soul again and again. “You refused me once, long ago.” Augustin’s gorgeous face cracked in pain when I rebuked him, ignoring Freia’s horrified gasp.
“You have stood by all this time, watching my enemies tear me apart, sacrificing me to Wuotan, slaughtering my innocents. If you, as a dead man, are the only one who can avenge my blood, what holds you back? Where is that love you claim for me?” I glowered at Augustin with the eyes of a vengeful goddess, and he fell at my feet, his fire extinguished, sobs shaking his body.
“Forgive me, Muniche . . . forgive me! I love you . . . for I feel your pain . . . and you are my faithful wife. I shall avenge your blood . . . I swear it.” And I felt his fiery hands close upon my heart, his fidelity infusing me with triumph amidst despair, our bond expanding now to include my desolate city.