The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  I had seen him earlier today, when Armand and I had been resting in the barrack’s central courtyard, having just emerged from a vigorous sword-training session. Friedrich had arrived at the barracks, and was being escorted up to Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel’s office. He had passed straight by us, his features concealed beneath a wide-brimmed hat. But it was the blade jostling by his side that had caught the Frenchman’s attention. Armand had explained that it was a mortuary-hilted broadsword, judging from the distinctive half-basket guard, the wire-wound, sharkskin handle, and the chiselled metalwork on the hilt, depicting the engraved faces of Charles I and his wife, Henrietta Maria. These blades were developed in England during the period of the Civil War. Armand pointed out that Oliver Cromwell had used a mortuary blade during the Siege of Drogheda in 1649. It was rumoured that Friedrich Geist had acquired that very sword.

  Sitting at the far side of the table is Francesca Cannavaro, a young woman of striking beauty. Her olive complexion, full lips, dark brown eyes, and long, straight, raven-black hair hint that she heralds from one of the Italian city-states. Although only a little older than me, she carries herself in a proud manner that suggests she is out to prove herself to the world, holding her head high in haughty self-assurance. But her beauty and confidence are matched by her mystery, for she is introduced as belonging to some clandestine unit attached to the Vatican – the Custodiatti – which is responsible for procuring lost artefacts and biblical treasures.

  As I said, some of the most important and learned people in the Holy Roman Empire have gathered in the Grand Hexenjäger’s office. A mixed bag of warriors, scholars and men of the cloth. All summoned for a secret meeting. And here I am, sitting slap bang in the middle of them, feeling as awkward as a beggar sitting in the king’s seat at a royal banquet.

  ‘I cannot thank you enough for heeding my urgent call,’ Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel begins. ‘Although my letters of summons provided you with only a brief explanation as to what has transpired, I’m sure you understand the gravity of our situation. The security of the Holy Roman Empire – indeed, the fate of the world – lies in our hands. A little over a week ago, young Jakob von Drachenfels – who sits here amongst us this evening – had been sent with a fellow Hexenjäger to investigate some exhumed graves in a cemetery near Wurzen. We thought it was nothing more than a routine mission. But we were wrong – very wrong. For it appears Jakob stumbled across something of far greater importance: the resting place of a prophet named Andreas Rundst. Now before I proceed any further, I would like to invite the Witch Bishop of Aachen to tell us a little about this man.’

  ‘I was part of a team of Church officials sent to Dresden some nine years ago to investigate Andreas Rundst,’ the Witch Bishop says. He continues to explain the circumstances concerning Andreas’s case, and of the investigation itself. Almost ten minutes pass before he concludes speaking. He then stares at me.

  ‘Andreas’s vision of Armageddon and the Tablet of Breaking was not public knowledge.’ His eyes narrow. The Witch Bishop leans across the table and stabs a finger, adorned with a silver ring engraved with three Xs, down on its surface. ‘How is it, then, that you know of this?’

  I feel my skin crawl, realising that in disclosing my knowledge of Andreas Rundst’s vision to Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel, I may have made a foolish – indeed, perhaps fatal – error of judgement. When I had been recuperating in the infirmary and first spoken to the Grand Hexenjäger, my sole concern was that we prevent Armageddon by finding the Tablet of Breaking before the pale-skinned stranger. But now I fear I may have placed myself on the Inquisition’s gallows with a noose around my neck. For years I have kept my knowledge of Rundst’s prophecy secret. I never even discussed it with my uncle. And now one of the Inquisition’s most feared interrogators is sitting opposite me, his eyes locked on mine.

  ‘I was in the church when Andreas came looking for Father Callumbro,’ I lie, trying my best to sound convincing, determined not to implicate my uncle. ‘Like every other child in Dresden, I was terrified of Andreas, for it was common knowledge that he was a prophet and could see into the future. I hid in the cloisters and overheard their conversation. I was only seven at the time, and what I heard scared me so much that I never spoke of it to a single soul.’

  ‘I shouldn’t need to remind you that this is not an interrogation,’ Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel says, raising a hand to caution the Witch Bishop. ‘You are here on my summons, and Jakob is a member of the Hexenjäger, under my protection. Let’s not get sidetracked from our purpose.’

  ‘I only have one purpose, and it is always clear,’ the Witch Bishop says, refusing to take his eyes off me. ‘I sever the gangrenous limbs from the inflicted body, so that it may grow strong and pure once more. I find the truth amidst the web of lies and deceit.’

  ‘You are misguided in this instance, just as you have been in the past,’ the Grand Hexenjäger says with finality, a hint of anger having worked its way into his usually calm voice. ‘I assure you, the Devil’s servants are not in this castle. And they are certainly not sitting at this table.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ the Witch Bishop says, receiving a concerned look from the head of my order. ‘Only last month it was revealed that members of the Brotherhood of the Cross and the King’s Secret had infiltrated the Hexenjäger. How, then, can you be so sure that the Devil – the master of treachery and deceit – is not already within these walls? Perhaps you are the one who is misguided.’

  Ferdinand von Fürstenberg places a hand on the Witch Bishop’s shoulder and eases him back into his seat. ‘I know you have both had your differences in the past. Justus was one of the most vocal critics of the creation of the Hexenjäger, believing the order would undermine the authority of the Inquisition. But it is time to bury your differences. More than ever before, we must present a united front against the forces of darkness.’ He smiles reassuringly, sensing that his words have already defused the tension in the room. ‘Justus has been trained well. Once he has the scent of blood, he does not stop. But in this instance, I believe Jakob is telling the truth. There is to be no further questioning of his loyalty to the Church.’

  The Witch Bishop stares at the Grand Hexenjäger for some time before he finally looks at von Fürstenberg and gives a slight nod in deference. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘So you’re the one?’ Ferdinand von Fürstenberg says, considering me. ‘You’re lucky to be alive. Not everybody who faces one of the Watchers is fortunate enough to survive.’

  The Watchers? So that’s what attacked me in the cemetery – a Watcher. But I’ve never heard of this name before.

  ‘Who are the Watchers? A coven of warlocks?’ I ask, hoping not to sound too ignorant. Though I assume this is a reasonable guess, given that the white-skinned stranger was skilled in necromancy. I’m also extremely relieved that the Witch Bishop of Aachen is no longer staring at me.

  Ferdinand von Fürstenberg shifts in his chair and shakes his head. ‘Not warlocks.’ He pauses and leans across the table, as if he’s about to reveal something best whispered. ‘Jakob, we are about to discuss matters that must not be repeated outside of this room. Not to anyone. To do so could threaten our world, and we will stop at nothing to prevent these secrets from being revealed. Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘I give you my word,’ I say, swallowing nervously, feeling as if I’ve stumbled into something that’s way over my head.

  Ferdinand von Fürstenberg studies my face briefly, reading the truth in my eyes, the conviction of my promise. I can recall Father Giuseppe Callumbro once informing me that the halls of the Vatican are a cutthroat world, with bishops and cardinals vying for power and the Pope’s favour. And Ferdinand von Fürstenberg is the puppet-master of the Vatican, pulling the strings as to who will climb and who will fall. Clandestine dealings and secrets are the tools of his trade, and there is none more skilled in reading truth and detecting deception. I�
��m actually very lucky he didn’t see through my lie about how I had overheard Andreas’s vision.

  Ferdinand von Fürstenberg rests back in his chair, seemingly satisfied with my promise. ‘What you encountered in that cemetery was not a warlock, but one of four fallen angels.’

  A cold shiver runs through my body and my throat tightens. ‘Fallen angels?’

  ‘That’s correct. I know, it’s hard to believe, but they have walked amongst us for thousands of years.’

  ‘Ever since the rebellions in Heaven, to be precise,’ adds the Witch Bishop of Aachen.

  ‘I’ve only been in the Hexenjäger for a little over a month now,’ I say, shaking my head in disbelief, ‘and I’ve already battled witches, the possessed and a demon. But fallen angels! Wandering around our world for thousands of years! How is that possible? I mean, weren’t Lucifer and his rebel angels banished to Hell for an eternity?’

  ‘They were. Or so the Bible tells us,’ confirms Lothar Liebknecht, the Professor of Antiquity. ‘But the Bible doesn’t tell us of the second rebellion.’

  He’d better be careful. What he’s saying is bordering on heresy. One does not make criticism of the Lord’s Book, particularly when in the presence of the Witch Bishop of Aachen and the Bishop of Paderborn.

  ‘There is an ancient text – the Book of Jeroboam – which talks of a second rebellion in Heaven,’ Lothar explains. ‘This rebellion was led by four angels known as the Watchers. Fortunately, the rebellion failed, and the four were cast out of Heaven. Fearing that they would become powerful generals in Lucifer’s legions, they were not sent to Hell, but were banished for an eternity to wander the world of man. And so they have walked amongst us for the past few millennia, cursed to never know the peace of death, but forever searching for the Tablet of Breaking, with which they would destroy God’s creation.’

  ‘And I don’t think it’s a mere coincidence that one of the Watchers happened to exhume Andreas Rundst’s corpse,’ the Witch Bishop of Aachen comments.

  Lothar reaches down to produce an ancient text from a leather bag parked by his chair. ‘We weren’t told much about the purpose of this meeting, other than it was urgent and concerned the Tablet of Breaking. Having arrived here and seen archaeologists, a member of the Custodiatti, and the leader of the Milites Christi, it didn’t take long to work out the precise reason for our summons. We are fortunate that I came well prepared.’ He pauses as he opens the text, its pages cracked and stained. ‘But before we proceed any further, we need to confirm that it was indeed one of the Watchers that you encountered. Here is a Greek manuscript of the Epistle of Alexandrus. We think this dates from the sixth century BC. What makes this manuscript so unique is that it is the only text in existence that provides a description of the Watchers.’

  A silence descends upon the room as Lothar fingers through the ancient volume. I look nervously across at Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel. But there’s no reassuring smile to be found there. His face is heavy with foreboding.

  ‘Ah, here it is,’ Lothar announces, finding the relevant page. ‘Now, please bear with me – my ancient Greek isn’t the best. But the passage reads something like this:

  ‘And so one of the Watchers came to the lands ruled by Nebuchadnezzar. It tried to live amongst the people of Babylon, but it was shunned and driven away, for its skin was the pallor of the dead, and its eyes dripped blood. Nor could any weapon kill it.’

  ‘It sounds very similar, you must admit, to the thing you encountered in Wurzen,’ Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel says.

  ‘Too similar.’ I shake my head, still struggling to come to terms with what I’m hearing. ‘But I always thought that angels were beautiful, graceful beings with feathered wings and benign faces. At least, that is how they are always depicted in paintings. The Watcher I encountered looked like something that had escaped from Hell.’

  ‘I imagine that’s what angels do look like,’ Lothar says. ‘But God stripped the Watchers of most of their powers. Ancient texts also tell us that the Archangel Gabriel tore the wings from their backs and cast a spell upon them that left them terribly disfigured, so that they could never hide amongst the races of man. They would be eternally spurned.’

  ‘So what powers do they still have?’ I ask. ‘My rapier and pistol had little effect on the one I encountered. And it was in a cemetery – on hallowed ground. How is that possible?’

  ‘The Watchers were once soldiers in Heaven’s legions,’ the Witch Bishop explains. ‘Hence, they lose none of their powers when on hallowed ground. They are stronger than any foe that the Hexenjäger would have ever encountered. No ordinary weapon can kill them. Even holy water and the blessed blades you wield may only wound them, stalling them for a few seconds.

  ‘The Watchers are not only immortal, but they are necromancers. They raise undead henchmen to do their bidding, entering combat themselves when their minions fail. They are fierce warriors, possessing the ability to freeze their enemies with fear, and they use cursed blades. But their leader, Shemyaza, is to be the most feared, being the strongest of the Watchers and possessing the power to transform into animals, often favouring to take the form of a pack of rats or a murder of ravens. Shemyaza also only has one eye; apparently the Archangel Gabriel tore out the angel’s right eye during the rebellion in Heaven.’

  I nod, a chill running across my skin as my thoughts flash back to my near-fatal encounter with the Watcher. I turn back to Lothar. ‘As you know, I have heard of the Tablet of Breaking – the ancient relic that will bring about the end of the world if it is ever activated. But I know nothing else about it. Where did it come from, and why was it ever created?’

  ‘According to the Book of Nezzar,’ Lothar explains, ‘God instructed the Archangel Gabriel to create a device – which we now know of as the Tablet of Breaking – so that He could destroy the world. I can see the shocked look on your face. You are no doubt wondering as to why God would ever contemplate creating a device with which He could destroy His greatest creation. But we must remember that our first ancestors did not do the best job in impressing our Lord. Adam and Eve defied God’s will and ate from the Forbidden Tree, Cain killed Abel, and mankind created the Tower of Babel in order to reach Heaven and be as great as God. The world had fallen into such moral depravity that God had to send a cleansing flood to rid the world of sin. The Tablet of Breaking was created by the Archangel Gabriel as a warning to mankind to never again stray from God’s law.

  ‘During the second rebellion in Heaven, the leader of the rebel angels, Shemyaza, stole the Tablet of Breaking, intending to use the relic to destroy the world to which it had heard it would be banished. But Shemyaza’s attempt failed for – once it had been banished to our world, and before it could work out how to use the Tablet of Breaking – a great Babylonian warrior managed to steal the device. The relic was hidden from the Watchers in a secret location, never to be seen again.’

  Lothar extracts a calf-skin scroll from his leather bag, unrolls it and spreads it across the table. ‘Not only does the Book of Nezzar explain why the artefact was created, but, more importantly, it provides a sketch of the device. I have here a later copy, taken from a text scribed by monks during the ninth century.’

  We all lean forward, intently studying the sketch of the ancient artefact. It is rectangular in shape, with strange symbols etched all over its surface.

  ‘What do the symbols represent?’ I ask.

  Lothar sighs and shakes his head. ‘That we don’t know. For several centuries now the Church has tried to decipher their meaning, and it has had no luck. Some theologians believe the symbols are the language of God. Whilst we know the purpose of the device and what it looks like, we do not know how it works, nor of its secret location. Its final resting place has remained a mystery for several millennia.’

  ‘But you know where the Tablet of Breaking is hidden, don’t you?’ the Witch Bishop of Aachen
says, practically impaling me with his stare. ‘You heard the Watcher extract the secret from Andreas Rundst’s corpse.’

  ‘I did,’ I reply, only now remembering that the only other person privy to the secret is Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel. I glance across at the Grand Hexenjäger, seeking confirmation that I may reveal the resting place of the Tablet. He nods gravely.

  I take a deep breath, then announce, ‘It lies in the Hall of Records in the City of Lot.’

  A collection of blank expressions greets my words. Perhaps it’s just my imagination, but the shadows in the room seem to have deepened, as if the world has suddenly become more sinister, and the cosmic order has been threatened by the mere mention of the artefact’s location.

  ‘The City of Lot? Are you sure?’ Francesca asks shortly in stilted German, her brow creased in confusion.

  I nod. ‘They were Andreas’s exact words: “The Hall of Records in the City of Lot”.’

  The Witch Bishop looks at me sceptically, as if he doesn’t believe that I heard the secret correctly. He then regards the rest of the table. ‘Has anyone ever heard of this city? This City of . . . Lot?’

  Again, blank expressions. The odd shaking of a head. The scratching of a forehead in thought.

  And it’s at this point that I start to question myself. Perhaps I had misheard those gargled words that were extracted from Andreas Rundst’s corpse. I was, after all, struggling to remain conscious, barely aware of my surroundings. What if, in my delusional state, I had misheard the secret?

  But Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel comes to my rescue. ‘I haven’t heard of a city called Lot. But I think I know what Andreas was referring to.’ He pauses, leaving us hanging off his next few words. ‘The lost city of Sodom.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jens Taaffe says. He clicks his fingers, his eyes dancing with excitement. ‘I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me as soon as the boy mentioned it.’