Chapter 35. The Wishing Well of the Damned

Janfelter jerked his arms violently against the ropes binding him to the post beneath the gallows. Despite his vicious struggles, more hands had always come from the mob like wasp stingers. His fine armor had been stripped away and his shirt ripped asunder. His breeches were wet from his own blood and being dragged through the snow.

His long hair stuck to his pale face. The fext gnashed his teeth at the two men still winding rope around his body. If he could have spit venom at them, he would have.

Three fellows had already taken turns trying to garrote him, but the flexing muscles of his strong neck and his ever-healing flesh had driven each one of them away in horror of his sorcery.

People began to arrive with faggots of wood. The men stepped away so that the scurrying townsfolk could fling their kindling around his feet.

Confronted by the prospect of immolation, Janfelter tried to form a new strategy besides mindless struggling. He could find no slackness in the ropes that lashed him to the post. He twisted and pushed hard against his bindings until they cut into the flesh across his chest and upper arms.

People continued to toss wood in a haphazard circle around his feet. Clearly, the impromptu architects of this unsanctioned execution had no concerns about destroying the gallows structure that the authorities had taken the time to build for less combustible forms of capital justice.

A man tossed an armful of straw near his feet and three people threw their torches into the tinder. The greedy flames jumped up like dogs fighting over a piece of meat. The crowd roared, and more people rushed forward with their torches. They flung their brands toward the fext with fearful haste as if making a wish at the well of the damned.

Smoke soon choked Janfelter. Pain seared through his throat and chest as he continued to struggle. Heedless of the wood and ropes scraping his skin, he managed to rotate his body on the post a little bit, but the spreading fire was encircling him as it traveled the loose fuel.

The crowd parted for a man who raced toward the fire. With a great yell of wild blood lust, he threw a spear into Janfelter’s stomach. The sharp intrusion made his head spin with pain. The advancing fire cooked his toes in his boots.

Defiantly he took a deep breath of the violent ashy air and shouted, “A curse on your town. May your births be still and your deaths long!”

He felt blisters erupting on his lower legs as the flames came higher. The shaft of the spear still sticking out of his body caught fire. His agony overran his ability to make speech, and his curses gave way to howling shrieks. The people of Pressburg cheered his suffering with lurid satisfaction for taking this urgent matter into their own hands.

As awful damage spread across Janfelter’s body, the staples holding the enchanted placenta against his ribs gleamed in the fire. As the heat singed the organ’s flesh, Janfelter felt his magical protection waver. This part of him was vulnerable and he tried to twist his side toward the post and delay his demise.

Despite his blinding pain, hope came into his Hell. The spear finally fell free of his torn and blackening belly, but its point had nearly severed a coil of rope. The fire was now eating at the fibrous hemp, and Janfelter pressed with all of his might against his fiery bindings. When finally the coil broke, his awful shrieking turned darkly triumphant. He threw his body back and forth against the ropes. Each convulsion loosened him a little more.

His wicked audience stepped back in collective horror as they watched the strange man with half cooked flesh and hair falling to ash shake off the ropes inside his ring of fire.

In a fury that rivaled Lucifer’s fall from Heaven, he kicked at the flaming fuel and sent hunks of fire flying toward his tormentors. He staggered forward and scooped up the still burning spear. With the magical placenta free of the heat, vitality surged through his body with vengeful potency.

Consternation overwhelmed the men standing closest to him. Under the full moon with Hellfire at his back, Janfelter swept his gaze over the mob with the most serious hatred. The man in front of him saw how the horrific facial burns already receded a bit. Pink skin fringed black blotches and framed the demonic eyes of dark magic’s favored son. Janfelter gored him with the spear.

Spurred by the need to conduct a killing spree like no other, Janfelter launched a wild and deadly dance. His partners fell quickly from his striking spear, and utter panic scattered people. The security of the mob gave way to individual terror, and Janfelter thrust his spear into every back that he could reach.

He was left alone in the square with his chest heaving. Behind him the fire began to consume the gallows. Its brightness cast his shadow far across the square.

He blinked his eyes. They felt weird without eyelashes. He looked down at his hands. Fresh skin crept stubbornly over his ghastly wounds. The agony eased bit by bit. He dropped to the ground and pulled off his charred boots. They were still burning hot in his hands and he flung them aside. He yanked away the ashy remnants of his clothing and stalked naked among the dead. He stripped them of clothing and found a pair of boots that fit. One man was still alive although grievously wounded, and Janfelter snapped his neck.

He roamed the disheveled scene as the fire crackled heatedly in the background. He sought his armor and weapons, but no amount of terror had made people drop those valuable items.

He stalked the now empty streets until he reached the banker’s house. He did not bother confronting the man. He took the best horse he could find from the stable. At the town gate, Janfelter met no resistance although he could hear the men cowering in their gate house. The fext unbarred the gate himself and galloped out of Pressburg on the moonlit road.