by Stuart Daly
As Armand is forced to return his attention to the next monk to come up the stairwell, I spin around, just as a wooden panel is wrenched from the door, which creates a gap some six inches wide and half a yard long. Before I’ve even had time to train a pistol at the gap, one of the undead pushes its face up against it, and its bulbous eye locks on me.
My heart skipping a beat, I take an involuntary step back, level my pistol at the abomination, and fire. The monk’s head explodes in a cloud of pink mist. Even before the smoke has cleared from my pistol, another monk pushes up against the door. But rather than set its terrifying stare upon me, this one reaches a hand through the gap and starts to fumble at the candelabrum.
My hand flies instinctively to my Pappenheimer rapier, and I lash out violently at the hand, severing it at the wrist. As the bloody stump withdraws through the gap, I lunge forward, driving my blade deep through the monk’s throat. There’s a blood-gurgled cry, and the monk disappears, only to have the remaining undead, driven into a blood-crazed frenzy, launch themselves against the opening. Dozens of hands appear – some clawing at the candelabrum, and others trying to make the breach wider by prying apart the adjacent beams of wood.
Realising that my remaining pistol will be ineffective against such numbers, I return it to my belt and draw my other rapier. Summoning every ounce of my willpower not to flee in terror, I face the undead, slashing out at their hands until the inside of the doors is drenched in gore. But the undead are relentless, and it doesn’t take long before a second wooden beam is wrenched from the doors, making the breach some two hand-spans wide – just wide enough for the undead to squeeze through.
I’m about to call out to Armand, warning him that I cannot hold this position much longer, when my attention is caught by Nikolaos’s triumphant cry that he has discovered a way out to the church. My heart filled with newfound hope, I turn around to see the monk standing in the southern transept. He is located directly beneath a dome that, although only some six yards in circumference, rises through the ceiling of the church and contains the church bell. My eyes are drawn not only to the four three-foot wide openings in the dome, giving access to the shingled roof of the church, but to the rope that extends from the bell down to the church floor.
A rope that offers us a means of escape!
‘Well done. Armand, it’s time for us to leave!’ I call out over the wailing horde of undead. My attention turned back to the doors, I’m horrified to find that one of the monks has climbed halfway through the breach, and is reaching out desperately in an attempt to grab hold of me.
Without a second to lose, I swat the monk’s hands aside with my Pappenheimer and drive my second rapier deep into the zombie’s chest. It convulses violently, makes a last attempt to claw out at me, then slumps dead. Trapped in the breach, it prevents the other undead from climbing through.
Seizing this advantage, I sprint away from the doors and make my way into the southern transept, where I join Brother Nikolaos, who doesn’t waste a second in climbing the rope. As the church bell starts ringing, I look back into the northern transept, wondering what has become of Armand, only to find that he is engaged in a vicious fight with three of the undead. One is writhing in its death throes, impaled on one of Armand’s blades, and another is being forced back down the stairwell, cowering before a series of thrusts delivered by the witch hunter’s second sabre. But it’s the third undead monk that is of immediate concern, for it has somehow managed to weave past Armand, and is making its way down the nave, no doubt intending to remove the candelabrum from the doors.
Realising that I won’t be able to move fast enough to engage the monk with my blades, I sheathe my rapiers and draw my remaining pistol. I know that this will be a difficult shot, aiming at a moving target over twenty yards away. But I don’t have any other option. And so, trying to steady my breathing, I take aim and – BLAM! – discharge my pistol at the monk.
My shot misses, however, and all I can do is stare helplessly as the monk reaches the doors and pries free the candelabrum. The next instant, the doors are pushed violently open, and the undead swarm into the nave.
‘Armand! The undead are in the church. We need to leave – now!’ I cry as I return the pistol to my belt. Then, as Armand delivers a final slash at the closest monk in the stairwell and races across to the southern transept, I grab hold of the rope and start to climb.
I haul myself up with all the strength I can muster, pausing only when my feet are some sixteen feet above the ground. And then I look down at Armand, only now realising just how close the undead are. They have clambered down the nave with surprising speed and are some ten yards behind the French duellist.
Racing for his life, Armand streaks across the church. But when he is still some yards from the rope, the handkerchief that seems permanently attached to his hands falls from his sleeve. And it’s at this moment Armand commits an act of unthinkable folly: giving a cry of alarm, he skids to a halt and turns around to collect the handkerchief.
‘Armand – run!’ I yell, my eyes wide with terror, fearing that he won’t be able to climb to safety in time.
Deftly snatching his handkerchief from the floor and tucking it under his belt, Armand spins back around and races for the rope. In mid-stride, he sheathes his blades and makes a running jump, grabbing hold of the rope at a height of some ten feet. Capitalising on the momentum of his jump, he lifts his body up and swings his legs over his head, wrapping his legs around the rope. Then, just as the first of the undead catch up to Armand and reach out to drag him to his death, he releases his hands from the rope and, with a strength and agility I never knew was humanly possible, uses the power of his anchored legs to lift his upper body up to where my feet are positioned.
‘Keep climbing!’ Armand urges, grabbing hold of the rope. ‘We’re not out of this mess just yet.’
Still struggling to comprehend Armand’s miraculous leap to safety – and how he was prepared to sacrifice his life for his handkerchief – I scurry up the rope, terrified of the undead, which have now started to climb up after us. Climbing up a further ten feet, I enter the dome, navigate my way around the bell, and follow Nikolaos out through one of the openings onto the roof.
It’s only now I realise that Armand has not followed us. Instead, he has remained below, hanging halfway up the rope.
‘Armand. No! Climb up after us. There is still time,’ I cry, fearing that the Frenchman has decided to engage the undead, sacrificing his own life in order to grant Nikolaos and I time to escape.
Armand is one of the most talented swordsmen I have ever seen – a veteran duellist from the courts of France. But not even he will be able to keep the undead at bay whilst clinging to a rope. It will only be a matter of time before he will be ripped from his place and torn to shreds by the horde below.
Determined to offer him any assistance possible, I turn my back to the wind and rain and start to hastily reload my pistols. But then I catch myself, realising that Armand has no intention of facing the undead. He is armed with one of his sabres, but rather than using it to face the monks, he is cutting through a section of the rope just below his feet. No sooner have I realised this than he cuts through the rope, and the monks clinging to the severed section fall, crashing heavily onto the swarming mass below.
‘That should grant us some time,’ Armand says, returning his blade to its scabbard and making his way up to the dome.
‘I thought for a terrible moment you were going to make a last stand on the rope,’ I say, offering Armand a hand to help him climb out onto the roof, into the howling wind and rain.
‘What? And sacrifice this beautiful face? You should know me better than that by now.’ Armand grins in return. ‘Well, at least we are out of the church. But I’m sure it won’t take the undead long to work out another way to climb up here. Any suggestions as to what we should do?’
‘We can
leap across to the roof of the next building,’ Nikolaos says determinedly, having already formulated a plan. ‘There’s a courtyard located behind it, which gives access to a corridor that leads back to the rope-ladders. If we are fast, we can make it.’
Armand clicks his tongue in thought and has a quick inspection of the roof, searching for another means of escape. ‘As much as I dislike the idea of climbing down those ladders with dozens of undead coming after us,’ he says at length, ‘I don’t think we have any other option. And the sooner we make it to the ladders, the better our chance of survival.’
I shake my head, terrified at the mere thought of climbing down the cliff face. ‘But there must be another way out of here.’
‘We are stranded on this rock,’ Armand says. ‘With the net no longer an option, we have no choice but to use the ladders. Believe me, I like it no better than you do.’
And it’s only then, when Brother Nikolaos starts to direct us over to the edge of the roof, and we are preparing to leap across the five-yard expanse to the rooftop opposite, that I pay one last, desperate inspection of our surroundings. My heart fills with sudden hope.
For I have just discovered an alternative means of escape.
The front of the rock atop which the Monastery of Varlaam sits is a sheer cliff. The rear of the rock, however, is joined by a narrow saddle to a mountain that lies at the rear of the Thessalian Plain. Whereas this mountain rises to the same height as the Varlaam monastery, the bridging saddle, which is over ninety yards in length, sits some one hundred yards lower than the monastery. Located on a mountain ledge, fifty yards above the saddle, lies an old hut, accessed by a narrow trail that winds itself across the mountain and appears to lead to the plain below.
A dome, very similar to the one we just climbed through, rises from the roof of the building we are just about to cross over to. And there’s a rope that stretches from the dome to the hut, spanning the expanse that separates the monastery from the mountain.
‘What is that used for?’ I ask, drawing Nikolaos’s attention to the rope in question.
‘There’s an old hermit’s hut located on the mountain,’ the monk explains, his drenched robes buffeted by the wind. ‘You can see it there – over on that ledge. Occasionally one of our order, desirous of seclusion, spends some time living in the hut. Immediately beneath us are the storeroom and kitchen. The rope is used to send over supplies from the monastery to the hut via baskets.’
‘And is that rope strong enough to support the weight of a man?’
Brother Nikolaos stares at me, his eyes wide in disbelief. ‘Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking of . . .’
‘I’d rather try my luck on that than climb down two hundred yards of sheer cliff, all the while fighting off a horde of undead,’ I return, my tone suggesting that there should be no further questioning the issue.
Armand stares at the rope and chews his bottom lip in thought. ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’
Following Armand across the gap between the buildings, we gather around the dome, inspecting how securely the rope is fastened to a wooden support-post.
‘It seems good enough,’ Armand says, testing his entire weight against the rope. ‘We can use our pistols as handgrips and slide down to the hut. As the rope slopes downwards, our weight should be enough to ensure we have momentum. I suppose the only question remaining is who’s going across first? Any volunteers?’
‘It was my idea,’ I say as I stare across the expanse, feeling a terrible sensation of vertigo. ‘I’ll go first.’
Armand nods. ‘Nikolaos – you’ll go after Jakob. I’ll come across last.’ He then plants his hands on my shoulders and looks hard into my eyes, trying to instil in me the strength of spirit required to accomplish the task. ‘Remember that you are one of the Hexenjäger. You can do this. We’ll meet on the other side. Let’s just hope that we can do this before the undead work out what we’re up to.’
The last word has barely left Armand’s mouth than one of the undead – having worked out a means of accessing the church roof – pulls itself atop the far side of the roof and locks its lifeless eyes on us.
‘Jakob – it’s time to go!’ Armand commands and, drawing one of his sabres, moves over to the edge of the storeroom roof in preparation to engage the undead. ‘Nikolaos – do not begin your descent until Jakob has reached the hut. I very much doubt that the rope will be able to support the weight of two people.’
‘But what about you?’ I ask, staring across at Armand. ‘I’m not leaving you behind.’
‘I respect your loyalty, young Jakob, and I’d be honoured to have you fight by my side,’ Armand calls over his shoulder, drawing his second sabre as another undead monk clambers atop the church roof. ‘But you don’t have a choice. The daggers must be delivered safely to our companions. And if you don’t go right now, we run the risk of having them fall into the hands of the Watcher.’
‘But surely Brother Nikolaos can deliver the . . .’
‘This is not open for discussion,’ Armand says decidedly, looking back at me. ‘So go – now. And I give you my word that I’m not going to die up here. Not after all we’ve already been through. Rest assured, I’ll meet you on the other side. I’ll be right behind you.’
Knowing that Armand is speaking the truth – that the success of this mission, and hence the fate of the world, may rest on the safe delivery of the Daggers of Gabriel – I produce both of my pistols. Having handed one to Nikolaos, I use the other as a handgrip, placing the barrel perpendicularly across the top of the rope, and then take a firm hold of the barrel and handle. Sparing one final glance back at Armand, I move to the edge of the roof, stare across at the distant hut, say a hasty prayer, and push off.
I fly out across the expanse, but I have barely travelled three yards before the sound of two familiar voices compels me to look back at the rooftop. To my great surprise Friedrich Geist and Reinhold Mordghast have climbed atop the church roof and are hacking into the undead. They must have been alarmed by the monk who had fallen from the winch-house, and made their way up the rope-ladders to help us find and secure the daggers, then followed the sounds of combat to the church.
Hoping their extra blades will be enough to turn the tide of the fight in our favour, I return my focus to the descent. Terrified of looking down, I lock my eyes on the hut, which draws closer with each passing heartbeat. The pouring rain blurring my vision and the wind howling in my ears, I zoom across the expanse. I’m conscious of the massive chasm that has opened beneath me like an abyss. If the rope were to snap, I would plunge to my certain death, splattering on the rocks below. I try to push such fears aside, forcing myself to remain strong, taking strength from the fact that with each passing second the daggers, stored within the bag slung over my shoulder, are being whisked away from the Watcher.
After what seems to be an eternity, I reach the other side and race forward to brace my back against the wall of the hut, wanting to place as much distance as possible between myself and the edge of the narrow ledge – which drops in a perfect vertical cliff, over fifty yards deep, to the saddle below. Shielding my eyes from the wind and rain with a trembling hand, I peer back up at the monastery to find that Nikolaos has begun his descent. As I am now located some fifty yards lower than the rooftops of the monastery, I can no longer see what has become of Armand and the two members of the Milites Christi. Feeling quite helpless, knowing that my companions are fighting for their lives atop the rooftops while all I can do is stand here and wait, I draw a shaky breath and pray that Varlaam will not become their tomb.
It seems to take forever for Nikolaos to complete his descent. Joining me beside the hut, he returns my pistol, then stares back up at the lofty heights of the monastery.
‘I hope I’m never forced to do that again,’ he stammers and crosses himself. ‘I can’t believe I just did that.’
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‘And what of the others?’ I ask, desperate to know what has become of Armand. ‘What’s happening up there?’
Nikolaos shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t good. The undead were swarming all over the church roof. Just as you began your descent, two more swordsmen, who I can only assume are part of your team, arrived. They tried to hold the undead at bay. But there were just too many of them. I don’t know how I even made it out of there in time. I hate to say it, but I don’t think any of your friends are going to make it off that roof.’
I take an enraged step towards the ledge, my fists clenched, wishing that there was something I could do. But just when I fear that my companions will be slaughtered, a figure leaps from the storeroom roof and begins to zoom down the rope.
Armand flies across the expanse, his fingers locked around the ends of his pistol. But he has barely slid down ten yards before the undead, relentless in their pursuit, start to go down the rope after him. Climbing hand over hand, they will never be able to catch the witch hunter, though I fear that the rope will not be able to support their weight, and that Armand will fall to his death.
My personal fear of heights forced aside by a deeper concern for my friend, I move closer to the edge of the cliff, willing the rope to hold. Long seconds drag by, and Armand makes his way across the expanse, his legs locked together and arched forward in an attempt to minimise wind resistance. He is no further than fifteen yards away from me when he gives a triumphant grin, believing he is going to make it safely across to this side.
I hold out a hand in preparation to assist him onto the ledge when the rope snaps!
Crying out in disbelief, I watch Armand, the triumphant grin still upon his lips, disappear into the abyss. I dive forward and scurry on my hands and knees to the edge of the ledge, terrified of what I fear I will find below. My head jolts back in sudden surprise, when I find Armand – having somehow maintained his hold on the rope – climbing up the cliff face, only some ten yards below me.