“Have faith,” Thaddeus said. “Have hope. The words you spoke today were powerful. I saw men changed today, as I have in the past. Changed for good.”
“I fear, at times, my faith is running out, Thaddeus,” Asaf said, throwing a twig into the fire. “I fear hope is gone. I’m a defrocked priest. A sinner of the worst kind.”
“We all are sinners,” Thaddeus said.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Asaf said. “But what good can we do? What good can I do? How many more of these missions are we to go on?”
“As many as the Lord calls us to,” Thaddeus said.
“For how long, Thaddeus?” Asaf asked. “You were the first … the first of us. How long do we keep going on?”
“I don’t know,” Thaddeus said, trying to smile but feeling the same weariness he saw on Asaf’s face. “I don’t know.”
Chapter 4
THADDEUS LOOKED OVER HIS SHOULDER. He was some distance behind them, almost out of sight. But he was there.
“Do you see him?” he asked
“Aye,” replied Gunnar without even turning around.
“Is that who I think it is?” questioned Asaf.
“It is. The one we saw at the battlefield,” Thaddeus replied.
“A bold little demon,” Gunnar said, “to be following us.”
“You know as well as I do something else is commanding him,” Thaddeus said. “Say a prayer for us, Asaf.”
“It’s not magic,” Asaf replied.
“I know,” Thaddeus said, “but it would make me feel better.”
“And me,” Gunnar added.
Asaf huffed loudly and then sighed before he said a prayer. It wasn’t in Latin or Hebrew. Whenever Asaf was truly serious about his prayers, he prayed in his language, that of the Jews. When he’d finished with his ‘Amen’, Thaddeus and Gunnar made the sign of the cross. Thaddeus felt better after Asaf’s prayer. He felt secure and protected. He knew the evil one who had been following them would stay away, in darkness, at least for a little while.
“Should we teach him more Latin?” Thaddeus asked, nodding to Alden who rode some ten paces in front of them.
“I think he knows quite a bit already,” Gunnar replied.
“How long is he going to be with us?” Asaf asked.
“What do you mean?” Gunnar asked.
“How long is this Alden going to be traveling with us?” Asaf asked. “I’m not wasting my time on teaching him Latin if he’s only going to be with us another week or less.”
“I suppose we will find out when we get to Chesterfield,” Thaddeus said.
Alden heard the town’s name and slowed his horse so they could catch up.
“Chesterfield,” he said. And then, in his best Latin, he added, “We go. I take you see Bishop. Meet King.”
“He’s a quick learner,” Thaddeus said.
Asaf grumbled.
†
Thaddeus sat sideways on his saddle, leaning in close to the fire. As dusk had settled, the clouds darkened and unleashed a steady downpour soaking through to his breeches. His boots sank into the muddy ground as he leaned forward, hoping the heat would at least dry his hair. Polemistes snorted, nudging Thaddeus’s shoulder, stepping closer to the fire as well.
“Careful, boy.” Thaddeus rubbed Polemistes’ nose. “If you get too close, the fire might burn off your nose hairs.”
“If that’s the case,” Gunnar said with a laugh, “you ought to lean a little closer. I don’t know if I can distinguish the difference between your mustache and those hairs dangling from your nose.”
Asaf gave a loud, snorting laugh that almost sounded like a mule.
“Well, well. The somber, grumpy priest actually has a sense of humor.” Gunnar opened his hand as if presenting Asaf to Thaddeus.
Asaf covered his mouth and tried to straighten his face.
“He’s still out there.” Thaddeus nodded to the darkness.
“Two days come the morn,” Asaf added.
“Enough,” Gunnar grunted, standing hurriedly. “I’ve had enough of this.”
He grabbed his long spear, a six-foot-long piece of ash tipped by another foot of steel that could not only punch through the thickest piece of mail but cleave through a man’s neck despite his iron gorget. He walked to the edge of the firelight and Alden followed, standing just behind the large Norseman. Thaddeus could only see the back of Gunnar’s head, but he knew the look that would be on his face, a scowl that could melt iron and spoil any man’s blood. Gunnar lifted his spear into the darkness.
“I’m here you coward! Come and get me if you have the balls for it. You’ll not find a man here who will cower to you or grovel at your feet, you swine!”
“Gunnar,” Thaddeus said, his voice a low, whispering, hiss. “Do not tempt evil or the Devil. Come and sit down. Leave it be.”
“Nah.” Gunnar spit into the darkness. “I’ve seen too much. Been around too much. I’m not going to sit here while this demon stalks around behind us, in the darkness. Show yourself!”
Thaddeus was about to protest further, but he heard a rustle, a movement not too far off, beyond the light of the fire, and covered by the cloudy night. Alden drew his long sword and stepped up next to Gunnar. Thaddeus stood and drew his own sword, moving just behind Gunnar. Asaf was there too, only a second later, with a short sword in one hand, and a war hammer in the other. He heard Asaf muttering, under his breath. He was praying. Thaddeus thought a good idea; he should pray too.
A sound came again. Feet sloshing through the soggy ground and muddy puddles.
“Well,” Thaddeus said, “if he meant to be stealthy, he’s failed miserably.”
He heard Gunnar chuckle, but then came a hissing from the darkness, followed by a small screech like an owl.
Alden looked at Gunnar, sniffing at the air.
“He smells something,” Gunnar said.
“Demon stink?” Thaddeus asked.
“No,” Gunnar said with the quick shake of his head. “Decay.”
A man—or rather what had once been a man—burst from the darkness, screaming incoherently. His face was black and blue, and dried blood covered his mouth and nose. His clothing was tattered, and he carried no weapon.
“By Christ’s Bones,” Asaf cursed, swinging his hammer upwards.
It slammed into the lower jaw of the man. The flesh tore, and the mandible hung down, barely connected by rotting flesh and tendons. The man hissed as best he could and turned on Asaf, but Gunnar jammed his spear into his back and threw him towards the fire. The man’s clothes burst into flames, and he flailed about as his puss-ridden skin bubbled.
“The undead,” Thaddeus muttered.
“More come!” Alden yelled.
“He’s not surprised by the walking dead?” Asaf asked.
“Apparently not,” Thaddeus replied. He heard hissing and shuffling and screeching all around them. “Backs to the fire. Nothing gets behind you.”
Gunnar translated for Alden to be sure he understood, and they each faced outwards, waiting. Another dead man ran from the darkness of the rain-drenched night, his hands out and his long, filthy fingernails ready to scratch. Gunnar impaled the creature with his spear, but it pushed itself up the shaft, ignoring what would have been a grievous wound, and clawed at the Norseman until Alden removed its head. Another came, at Asaf, and the priest cut an arm off with his short sword while destroying its face with his hammer. Then another, towards Alden, and the hearthguard proved his skill as a warrior once more, removing both hands before lopping off its head.
Thaddeus heard more hissing and moaning in front of him. Then, he saw them, two more of the undead, lumbering from the darkness. A woman and a teenager, and he could sense they were mother and daughter. His stomach knotted as the mother’s head hung oddly to one side, and the daughter’s neck showed significant bruising, even in the discoloration of death. The undead child bit at the air while the mother sniffed and clawed at Thaddeus.
He gripped his sword w
ith both hands. The mother came at him first, her speed belying her undead state. She snapped at him with blackened teeth, her stench putrid. As he kicked out at her, pushing her back, she rushed back in, clawing wildly. He swung upwards, removing a hand, but she didn’t even notice. The daughter came in after her. Staving off the mother with the tip of his blade to her shoulder, Thaddeus pushed against the undead child’s head, keeping her at arm’s length as she thrashed about. He could feel the brittleness of her skin on his palm. She was cold.
“What are you doing?” Gunnar yelled as he and Alden fought to keep several more of their attackers at bay.
“It’s a mere child!” Thaddeus replied, looking at the girl and, even though life no longer lived in her eyes, he saw a once vibrant child with long, brown hair and hazel eyes. She had a mouth, albeit stained with blood, that would have given a heartwarming smile and, from somewhere in his head, he heard her giggle.
Alden and Gunnar spoke sharply with one another. Thaddeus looked over his shoulder for a moment, and the undead mother pushed herself onto his blade, pressing closer and closer to him. The child’s attacks seemed to intensify, and then, she stopped. So did the mother.
He turned to see Alden standing over the undead girl’s body. Her head lay on the ground, her mouth fixed in a snarl, and her body next to it. He drew his sword back from the undead mother, releasing her, and then removed her head. Alden looked at Thaddeus and then at the undead child.
“She no alive,” Alden said in broken Latin. “Not a girl. Girl gone. With God.”
Asaf went from one undead body to the next, praying over them and then crossing himself. As he did so, each body shook, and a green mist rose from the corpse, the decaying husks emitting one last cry.
“Burn the bodies,” Asaf said. “Lest they become corrupted again.”
Before the others could obey, they heard laughter in the darkness. It was a man’s laughter, deep and resonating, and as the echo faded, the stink that was becoming far too familiar filled the air.
“Why don’t you come warm yourself beside our fire?” Gunnar asked.
“The brave Norseman,” the voice said, a croaking voice. It reminded Thaddeus of fingernails on slate. “We’ll see how brave you are when I show you your entrails and make you eat your balls.”
The ground shook, and the rain intensified, a loud wind swirling around the warriors. The fire, which blazed despite the rain, began to wane. Its light lessened, as did its warmth.
“This is no minor demon,” Asaf said, “or some demon-possessed man.”
“Stay behind me and pray,” Thaddeus said.
The voice from the darkness laughed.
“Your prayers won’t do you any good here,” the voice said. “They fall on deaf ears.”
“Ignore him,” Thaddeus said.
Asaf began to pray, and as the fire flared up again, a man walked into view, at the edge of the light. It was the Norman soldier Thaddeus had seen at the aftermath of the battlefield. His face looked even more skeletal, elongated with the sunken cheeks and eyes, and the flesh around his nose was heavily decayed, and his lips cracked and pulled back over his teeth. His mail hauberk hung loosely from his shoulders as if several sizes too big.
As he lifted his hands up, his fingernails grew into long claws, and lion-like feet burst from his boots. He snarled, and fangs grew where his incisors had been, tearing what little flesh his lips retained. The demon muttered something, and the rain turned to sharp hail. Beetles and roaches began to emerge from the wet soil, scurrying everywhere, over boots and up the warriors’ legs.
“Minor magic,” Thaddeus whispered as a shard of hail scratched his cheek. “Wait for him to come to us.” Gunnar and Alden nodded as Asaf continued to pray.
The demon crouched, ready to pounce, and then leaped into the air. As he was in the air, he jerked his hands towards the warriors. His fingernails burst from his fingertips like tiny spears, but they easily dodged them. The demon screeched as new claws replaced the old ones and it took off again, landing between Gunnar and Thaddeus. The creature lunged towards the priest, but an invisible wind pushed it back.
At the same time, Gunnar jabbed his spear into the back of the demon’s leg, and it screamed as Thaddeus brought his blade down on its shoulder. It swiped at Thaddeus, but Alden brought his long sword down on the exposed arm, removing it at the elbow. The demon screamed once more, as a new arm grew from the old stump, this one reptilian and scaly.
It now tried to turn on Alden, but Gunnar jammed his spear into the creature’s back. The foot-long blade burst through its chest, sending chain links from his hauberk in all directions. From the other side, Thaddeus punched his blade into the demon’s chest.
“Amen!” Asaf shouted, and some unseen wind pushed the demon down to his knees.
With sword and spear, Thaddeus and Gunnar held the demon there as Alden backed up. Asaf approached the demon, and it began to speak in a dark language, the one from the underworld.
“Silence!” Asaf shouted and the demon, even though he still tried to speak, choked on his words. “I send you back to the underworld from whence you came.”
Asaf made the sign of the cross and then, retrieving a large, wooden cross hanging from a leather string on his belt, pressed the symbol to the demon’s forehead. The infernal creature began to shake and lifted its head to the sky and let out a deafening scream as it burst into flames. Thaddeus and Gunnar retracted their weapons and, within moments, the demon was nothing but black ash on the ground, being washed away by the rain.
“Burn the bodies,” Asaf said, looking to the bodies of the undead.
“In the rain?” Gunnar asked.
“They will burn,” Asaf replied. “Set fire to them. Now.”
The other three did as they were told, and the bodies caught fire quickly, flaring with green and blue flame. Within moments, like the demon, they were nothing but ash.
“May those tortured souls find peace in the Lord’s arms,” Thaddeus said, looking to where the body of the little girl had laid. He turned to Alden. “You’ve seen them before, haven’t you?”
Gunnar translated, and Alden nodded.
“This is something big, Thaddeus,” Asaf said. “That was no minor demon. A changeling who can raise the dead.”
“This mission is serious,” Gunnar said.
“All the Lord’s missions are serious,” Thaddeus replied.
“Just stop with that,” Gunnar said. “You know what I mean. Demons and the walking dead. And out in the open, not even worried about someone seeing them.”
“Where has Alden seen the undead?” Thaddeus asked, practically ignoring Gunnar’s concerns.
Gunnar sighed and asked Alden.
“In a village,” Gunnar translated. “All the men had been killed by the Normans, and then the women and children succumbed to disease. Those who did not die soon were hung. You saw the necks of the mother and daughter. He was sent out to the village by this king he keeps speaking about, and when he and the other hearthguards with him arrived, they found …”
“The walking dead,” Thaddeus said and looked back to where the mother and daughter had fallen.
“Thaddeus, they weren’t those people,” Gunnar said, putting a hand on the Greek’s shoulder. “Those people were already gone, their souls in heaven.”
“I know,” Thaddeus said, looking to Gunnar, and then Alden, and nodding. But he couldn’t get the image of the girl out of his head—not the twisted, broken husk of a girl attacking him, but what that pretty girl would have looked like in life.
“We can’t camp here,” Thaddeus said.
“No,” Gunnar agreed.
“We’ll ride through the night,” Thaddeus said. “We should make Chesterfield by morning.”
Chapter 5
AS THEY RODE SOUTH, Thaddeus couldn’t tell Gunnar was arguing with Alden.
“What’s the matter?” Thaddeus asked.
“I referred to Alden as a Northumbrian,” Gunnar explained, “
and he keeps telling me he is, in fact, not a Northumbrian but a Mercian. I don’t understand what the difference is.”
Thaddeus laughed.
“What is so funny?” Gunnar asked.
“You are a Swede, are you not?”
“You know I am,” Gunnar replied.
“And, as a Swede, did you at one point worship the same gods as the Danes?”
“Yes,” Gunnar said.
“And did you hold the same customs?” Thaddeus asked.
“For the most part.”
“And did you speak the same language?”
“There was some difference, but mostly, yes,” Gunnar said.
“So, I should just call you a Dane, yes?” Thaddeus said.
“If you want your head split in two,” Gunnar said and then laughed, understanding Thaddeus’ explanation. Thaddeus laughed too.
“Now you see, Mercians and Northumbrians are not the same, just as Swedes and Danes are not the same.”
Gunnar grinned again and reached out a hand to Alden. The Saxon looked at him for a moment and then smiled as he accepted the apology.
As silence descended once more, Thaddeus stared off into the distance, watching the undulations of a green hillside to the south, glimpsing the tall sparse trees—old and giant—making up the borders of a thick forest. He looked to the sky, grey and cold as the rain fell lazily, almost like a mist. In the breeze, it was cold but felt refreshing in between intermittent gusts of wind. He remembered hills and forests like that, people living in those places, under those skies.
“Damn this,” Asaf muttered.
“What?” Thaddeus asked.
“This,” Asaf said, lifting his hands. “Riding at night. This place. This mission.”
“Do you have something else in mind?” Thaddeus asked. “Is there some other place you need to be?”
“No,” Asaf muttered.
“Then stop complaining my canonical friend and enjoy this fine English weather.” Thaddeus laughed.
“Fine weather?” Gunnar exclaimed. “I would take the winters of Sweden over the cold, foggy, all-consuming drizzle that seems to fall all day, every day in this accursed place.”
To Kill a Witch Page 4