Until Death Do We Part

The bell shrieked above the square, slicing through the morning mist like a knife.

Ulrich stumbled as he stepped into the pit. The dirt walls closed around his waist, damp and clinging, swallowing him into the earth like a grave half-dug. His boots stuck in the mud, and when the bailiff shoved a rough-hewn club into his hands — bark still sticky with sap — he nearly dropped it. One hand was tied snugly behind his back. His club, both shield and weapon.

Across the clearing, his wife, Anna stood barefoot on the packed earth, her shift hanging heavy with morning dew. In her hands, she swung a length of linen, knotted around a river stone dark as spilled blood. The sling made a soft whooshing sound with every lazy rotation.

The crowd pressed close, held back only by frayed ropes and a few disinterested guards. Farmers, merchants, old women clutching their shawls tight against the cold — all had come to see justice served.

The magistrate lifted his staff.

“Let it be settled,” he intoned. “God will grant victory to the righteous. And to the loser, death! May God in His infinite wisdom, give strength to the righteous, and His holy wrath upon the partner most impure.”

The bell tolled again — once, twice — and the duel began.