The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  I shake my head in defeat. ‘But I can’t go any higher. If I try to, I know I will fall.’

  It’s then that Armand does something that leaves me gaping – he comes back down the ladder and climbs over the top of me!

  ‘If you fall, I fall,’ he says, his body pressed up against mine, bracing me against the ladder.

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ I baulk, fearing Armand will lose his grip and fall to his death. ‘You can’t do this!’

  ‘Why not? What makes my life more valuable than yours? I got you into this mess, and I’m not leaving you behind. But I’m not going to be able to drag you up to the monastery. I can help you, but you are going to have to take the first step. So release one hand and reach up to the next rung. Come on, Jakob, I know you can do this. We’ve come this far, and we can’t turn back now.’

  Closing my eyes, I search deep within myself for the strength to carry on and, after what seems to be an eternity, I reach out with a trembling hand to grab hold of the next rung.

  ‘Well done, Jakob,’ Armand commends. ‘I knew you could do it. That first step was the hardest. It will be easier from here on.’

  And so begins the agonisingly slow process of scaling the ladder. Spurred forward by Armand’s encouraging words, I manage to place one hand after the other, my resolve growing stronger with each successive rung. The wind is howling in our ears, threatening to rip us from the rock face, and we are impossibly high. But Armand stays with me the entire time, using his body as a barrier to prevent me from falling, and we eventually scale the cliff and reach where the ladder gives access to the monastery wall.

  Armand climbs ahead of me and pauses just beneath the top of the wall. He draws one of his sabres in preparation for combat and looks down at me. ‘Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? Are you ready?’

  Swallowing back the knot of fear in my throat, I nod in response and manage to pry one of my hands from the ladder to draw my Pappenheimer rapier.

  Then we’re over the monastery wall.

  We find ourselves on a narrow balcony that runs along the southern edge of the monastery. Our eyes are drawn instantly to the twisted bodies of two monks strewn across the cobblestone floor, their faces locked in lifeless screams. Shocked, I avert my eyes, acutely aware of the danger we have placed ourselves in.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Armand whispers.

  ‘It’s not exactly the reception I was hoping for,’ I reply, relieved to have my feet on solid ground once more, but fearful of the new peril we face.

  ‘It’s something you’ll never get used to,’ Armand says and crouches to inspect the bodies. ‘The sight of death unnerves even the most stalwart of soldiers. The trick is to learn how to channel your fear and make it fuel your own resolve.’

  ‘And how do you do that?’

  ‘By using these deaths as a warning as to what will happen to you if you don’t stay alert. You can also study the way in which these monks died in order to learn about their killer. We can then use that information to our advantage.’

  ‘How?’ I ask, sickened, forcing myself to look back at the twisted bodies. ‘They’re dead. Mangled.’

  ‘Doesn’t that tell us that their killer possesses great strength?’ Armand says. He stands up and walks over to my side. ‘There are still vital clues that you are missing. I know it’s not easy, but you need to study the scene more carefully. Your own survival may depend upon it.’

  Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I examine the bodies. Again, I cannot read anything. Then I remind myself that these are no ordinary monks. Friedrich Geist had informed us that the monastery was guarded by an order of military monks. That would explain why they are armed with swords and pistols. But their swords are still sheathed by their sides, and their pistols are tucked into their belts.

  ‘They were killed before they had the chance to ready their weapons,’ I say, finally noticing what Armand had been hoping I would detect.

  ‘Well done. And what does that tell us about their killer?’

  ‘It’s not a good sign,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘It’s a warning that somewhere up here lurks an adversary who can kill with great stealth – who can take out two opponents even before they had the opportunity to draw their weapons. We are going to have to watch our step. No rushing through this. We have to exercise extreme caution.’

  Armand pats me encouragingly on the shoulder, then signals for me to follow him westward along the balcony, over to a closed door leading to the winching room. Turning the door handle, Armand inches the door open, just enough to allow us to peer into the room – just enough to see the windlass, the opening in the floor through which the net is raised and lowered, and three more dead monks.

  We slip into the room. Armand moves over to the adjacent door and checks that the coast is clear. I force myself to inspect the corpses, hoping to learn more about the killer.

  The monks are lying in mangled heaps, their necks broken. Again, two of them have not drawn their weapons, having obviously been caught off-guard by their attacker. The third, whose shattered sword lies locked in his hand, must have at least offered some form of resistance. But I don’t think his resistance was very effective. He didn’t injure his attacker. I can deduce that much, for there’s not a drop of blood anywhere. Not a single drop.

  ‘It’s almost as if a ghost came through here,’ Armand whispers from the doorway, looking back at the bodies. ‘It caught them off-guard whilst their focus was on the windlass.’

  A cold shiver runs across my skin as Armand says these ominous words. I remember the look of pure dread on Wilhelm Friedsthorm’s face when he fought the Watcher in the cemetery. He had been rooted to the spot.

  Perhaps the monks had been frozen by the same fear. That would explain why they hadn’t drawn their weapons and offered minimal resistance to their attacker. Furthermore, even though I had the strength of will to be able to fight the Watcher during our encounter in the cemetery, my blade and pistol ball had been ineffective against it.

  ‘I fear one of the Watchers is up here!’ I whisper and join Armand by the door, my stomach knotting in dread. ‘And we won’t stand a chance against it. Not unless we can find the Daggers of Gabriel.’

  ‘I also surmised that we face a Watcher. And it is has come for the daggers.’ Armand peers back through the doorway, inspecting the corridor beyond. ‘What else would it be doing up here? The Watchers must have worked out that the Tablet of Breaking is located in Sodom and come out of hiding. They can’t risk others hunting them down, so they’ve come for the daggers – to destroy them.’

  ‘But how do they know that the daggers are here?’ I ask. ‘I thought the daggers had been kept in secret locations.’

  Armand shrugs. ‘The Watchers have roamed the earth for several thousand years. I’m sure they have known all along the secret hiding places of the daggers. They’ve never before had a reason to come after them. But now the situation has changed. They might suspect that there may have been survivors from the encounter in the cemetery in Wurzen – survivors who may not only have reported that it was the Watchers that had desecrated the graves, but who may also have overheard the secret location of the Tablet of Breaking. The Watchers likely came here as a precautionary measure – to seize the daggers and make sure that they cannot be used against them. Which means that we have to get to the daggers first.’

  I had been hoping he wasn’t going to say that. If I had my way, we would send warning to the other members of our team, who I last saw waiting at the base of the cliff. I have complete faith in Armand’s fighting skills, but it would not hurt to have some of our companions offer their blades in assistance. As much as I don’t trust Diego Alvarez, I would give anything to have him by my side right now. Hopefully, the twisted body of the monk who fell out of the winching house alerted our companions that the monastery is under attack, and Friedric
h has ordered the entire team to hasten up the sections of rope-ladder. But we don’t know what our companions are doing, so Armand and I are left to deal with this situation to the best of our abilities.

  Finding the daggers before the Watcher, however, is not going to be an easy task, particularly when we don’t know where the daggers are stored. And the monastery looks larger than I initially thought; no doubt comprising cells, a refectory, library, chapels, infirmary, storerooms and a catholicon. It could take some time to find where the daggers are hidden. And time is a luxury we don’t have. Not when we’re racing against one – or possibly even more – of the Watchers.

  ‘So where do we go from here?’ I ask.

  Armand shakes his head. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. The catholicon perhaps, being the central church. The daggers might be kept in the sacristy, along with any other treasures the monks have stored away. But I don’t know. The daggers could be anywhere.’

  ‘At least it’s a starting point. Let’s go.’

  Just as we are about to start moving, we hear a series of terrifying death-screams, coming from somewhere deep within the monastery.

  Armand and I exchange glances. Then we race off in the direction of the screams.

  We slip into the corridor adjoining the winching house. An archway at the western end of the corridor gives access to a balcony that runs along the western perimeter of the monastery. We need to move in the direction of the screams, so we stop outside a nail-studded door located on the right-hand side of the corridor, which gives access to the buildings and rooms in the centre of the monastery.

  We listen for sounds of movement beyond the door and, hearing nothing, move into the open courtyard beyond. This area is quite small, but it’s open to the sky, allowing us to get our bearings – to see the domed roof of the catholicon, over to the northeast, tucked behind several buildings. This is the direction the screams came from. But the chilling sounds have now ended: a sign that does not bode well for the monks. Nor does it bode well for us, for the Watcher must be getting closer to the daggers.

  Crossing the courtyard, we rush through an archway and head down another corridor. Passing several doors, we bound up a flight of steps and turn right. We burst into the courtyard beyond, out into the pouring rain again, to where the catholicon lies just ahead.

  We stop dead in our tracks.

  For we have run into a scene of utter carnage.

  May the Lord protect the souls of the fallen. We have found the place where the screams were coming from, but we are too late to assist the monks.

  There are perhaps twenty of them, strewn about the courtyard like rag dolls.

  ‘A last stand was made here,’ Armand says, moving warily through the dead, making his way over to the catholicon on the opposite side of the courtyard. ‘They tried to stop the killer from gaining the church.’

  ‘And it looks as if they failed,’ I observe, trying to avert my eyes from the dead as I follow Armand up to the catholicon’s ajar doors, which reveal three more dead monks lying just inside the church. ‘I don’t understand why these monks didn’t arm themselves with the daggers. They’ve guarded the weapons for several centuries. Surely they must know that these are the only things capable of slaying the Watchers.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t know what hit them until it was too late,’ Armand says. ‘The daggers might also be locked up in some secret vault, secure under lock and key. Perhaps the monks needed more time before they could access them. That would explain what happened here. Perhaps this wasn’t a last stand, but a delaying action: an attempt to keep the Watcher busy whilst another group of monks readied the daggers.’

  Armand braces his back against one of the doors. He flexes his sword-arm in anticipation of combat and peers into the church. ‘And the trail of death leads into here.’ He raises his sabre to his lips, kisses the blade, and says, ‘Deo duce, ferro comitante.’

  God as my leader and my sword as my companion: the creed of the Hexenjäger.

  I whisper the creed to myself and swallow back my nerves. Taking a steadying breath, I readjust the grip on my rapier. Then in we go.

  Like many medieval and renaissance churches, the catholicon is cruciform in shape. Its western arm, the long nave – through which we enter – stretches for some thirty yards before reaching the crossing arms of the church: the north and south transepts. At the far eastern end, hidden in shadow, lies the chancel, with its organ and altar.

  The entire interior of the catholicon is a rich tapestry of murals depicting the lives of saints, the Apostles, Christ and stories from the Bible. There isn’t a square inch of wall untouched by the hand of some master artist. But we turn instantly towards the north transept – to where we hear frenzied shouting and the squeal of steel on steel.

  Hastening over to the transept, we find a flight of roughly hewn stairs descending into the mighty rock upon which the monastery has been constructed. They tunnel into darkness, winding down into what must be the crypt.

  We move warily down the steps, stalking the sounds of combat. It feels as if we are descending into the very bowels of Hell. Every inch of my being is filled with dread. It is becoming darker with each passing footstep. But then, just as it becomes almost too dark to proceed any further, and the sounds of combat get alarmingly close, a soft orange glow – no doubt cast by a lantern carried by someone in the crypt – carries up the stairs, lighting our path.

  ‘We’re close now,’ Armand whispers, looking back at me. ‘Stay right behind me.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ I return, my voice so constricted with fear that I can barely talk. ‘I won’t be leaving your side. Let’s just focus on getting the daggers and then making a quick exit.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Armand says, his eyes glistening with a nervous excitement.

  He continues down the stairs, and I follow close behind, my heart beating wildly and sweat forming on the palms of my hands. Only a few seconds pass before we emerge from the stairwell and find ourselves in the crypt.

  Over forty yards away, in the light cast by a lantern in an alcove in the far wall, a monk is fumbling with a set of keys, trying to unlock an iron-ribbed chest. This chest must contain the Daggers of Gabriel, given that there’s a statue of the Archangel Gabriel standing at the rear of the alcove, guarding the chest. The monk’s back is being protected by a band of six more monks, who are trying desperately to hold at bay a black-clad figure wielding a broad-bladed medieval sword drenched in gore. The twisted bodies of five monks lie at this figure’s feet – a figure with skin as white as death.

  A Watcher!

  The Daggers of Gabriel are finally within our reach. But in order to get them, we must first deal with one of the fallen angels.

  ‘I want you to sneak around the side of the crypt,’ Armand whispers, the determined look in his eyes revealing that he has already assessed the situation and formulated a plan of action. ‘Use the tombs as cover. Don’t let the Watcher see you. Then, as soon as the opportunity presents itself, you’re to get over to that chest and arm yourself with one of the Daggers of Gabriel.’

  In the middle of the rectangular crypt, beginning near the eastern wall, and stretching twenty yards down towards the centre of the chamber, is an aisle of three stone tombs. There is an area of free space between where the tombs end and the far west wall of the crypt, and it is here that the monks are fighting the Watcher. Finally, set in an alcove in the centre of the west wall, lies the chest.

  It will not exactly be the easiest of targets for me to reach. Granted, with the Watcher preoccupied with the monks, and with the aisle of tombs providing cover, it will be easy for me to sneak down to the centre of the crypt. But then things are going to get difficult. Very difficult. In order to reach the chest, I must cross through the open space – which is some twenty yards in length and is currently staging the vicious
struggle between the monks and the Watcher.

  It’s not as if I’m going to be able to walk over, tap the Watcher on the shoulder, and ask politely if it wouldn’t mind stepping aside so as to allow me to get past. The Watcher will more than likely rip my head off the very second I emerge from the cover of the tombs!

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ I ask Armand, believing he might as well have signed my death warrant.

  ‘Protect you,’ he replies, and clicks his tongue in thought. ‘I’m going to draw the Watcher after me – buy you the time you need. Now get moving. Godspeed.’

  Godspeed! We’re going to need more than that if we’re going to make it out of here alive – more like the entire combined forces of the Hexenjäger and Milites Christi, all armed with Daggers of Gabriel. And we’d still need a wagonload of good luck thrown in for good measure.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I ask, worried that Armand will not survive this encounter. ‘Remember that our weapons can only stall the Watcher.’

  ‘We don’t have any other option,’ Armand says resolutely. ‘And don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Believe me, I’m not going to die in some monastery with a name I can barely pronounce. You just need to focus on making it to the daggers. Now get going. We’ve wasted enough time already.’

  I stare hard into Armand’s eyes, hoping that this will not be the last time I see him alive. ‘Be careful.’

  In return, Armand pats me on the shoulder, wishes me luck, and then instructs me to take position behind the row of tombs.

  Carefully monitoring the fight at the other end of the crypt, I sneak along the southern side of the chamber, keeping low, using the tombs as cover. It only takes me a few seconds to make my way down to the centre of the crypt. I crouch behind the final tomb, remaining hidden until Armand draws the Watcher’s attention.