The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  ‘You’re alive!’ I exclaim.

  ‘I said I’d meet you on the other side.’ Armand grimaces as he hoists himself up the rope. ‘Don’t just lie there gawking at me – give me a hand up.’

  Regaining my senses, I instruct Nikolaos to assist me on the rope, and together we haul Armand up to the ledge.

  ‘I can’t believe you managed to survive the fall,’ I say, lending Armand a shoulder and helping him over to the hut. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘I am simply fortunate that the rope gave way from where it was fastened to the storeroom roof, allowing me to swing across to the mountain. Had it snapped on this side, I would not have been so lucky. Mind you, I feel as if I’ve broken every bone in my body, and I lost my pistol. Still, I can’t complain – I’m alive.’ Despite his pain, Armand gives a roguish wink but then catches himself, his eyes flashing in alarm as he looks back at the monastery. ‘I don’t think Friedrich Geist will survive the fight. Reinhold had already fallen, and there were over a dozen of the undead swarming all over Friedrich when he ordered me to follow after you, to see the daggers delivered safely to our remaining companions. And now that the rope is gone . . .’

  He leaves the thought in mid-sentence, pondering the fatal consequences of Friedrich being left behind to face the Watcher’s horde. We stand there for a while, huddled against the wind and rain, staring up at the monastery and knowing that a terrible death most certainly awaits the leader of our company – and that there is nothing we can do about it.

  It has been eighteen days since we left the Meteora complex, and I am now settling down to sleep in a makeshift tent located in Hans Wallenstein’s archaeological camp on the southern bank of the Dead Sea. Having ridden hard for the past two days, we arrived in the camp a little over an hour ago, just as the sun was setting, and I’m eager to catch up on some much-needed sleep. That said, so much has occurred since we left Meteora that I very much doubt sleep will come to me easily.

  The events atop the monastery at Varlaam still haunt my dreams. It is nothing short of a miracle that Armand and I managed to survive. Having escaped from Varlaam, it took us several hours to make our way down through the mountains and rejoin our remaining companions at the base of the monolith. We were guided by Nikolaos to a nearby village, where we bandaged Armand’s bruised chest, replenished our provisions, bid farewell to the monk, and then carried on our way, wary that there may have been more Watchers in the region.

  Command of the mission had been assumed by Lieutenant von Konigsmarck – now the highest ranked officer in our small company – and we had ridden at a steady pace until nightfall, resting only when Armand could continue no further.

  That still didn’t stop the hot-blooded Spaniard, Diego Alvarez, from confronting Armand, accusing him of abandoning Friedrich Geist and Reinhold Mordghast, and demanding satisfaction through a duel to the death. Despite his battered state, Armand flourished his handkerchief, smiled recklessly in return, told Diego that such an insult could never be forgiven, and immediately accepted the challenge. It took von Konigsmarck some time before he could finally drag the Spaniard away from the haughty Frenchman. The Lieutenant warned Diego that he would be dismissed from the Milites Christi if he were ever to draw his blade against Armand. Diego had then stormed off and fell into a brooding silence for the next few days.

  This incident confirmed Armand’s earlier assessment of Diego’s nature. The Spaniard is driven by a desire to be a swordsman without rival, and I am sure that his accusation against Armand was merely a pretext designed to provoke the Frenchman into a fight. It had to be, for the only reason Diego had not directed the same accusation at me was because, being a novice, I was no threat to his aspirations. I also suspected that Diego had recognised Armand from when they had fought in Venice, and was using the deaths of his comrades as an excuse to bait the Frenchman to draw his swords.

  I was at first surprised by Armand’s response to Diego’s challenge. Armand could have easily ignored the Spaniard, dismissing his verbal assault as something said in a fit of anger and frustration over the loss of his friends. Having never lived in the French courts, I am a stranger to the world Armand hails from, and it’s only now that I’ve started to understand the importance of honour to a man such as him. It lies at the very core of his being, and the maintenance of this honour is more important than life itself. Armand is a veteran of over thirty duels, all fought in the name of maintaining his reputation. His libertine past, however, has brought much shame upon his family name, the dignity of which he is desperate to restore. Diego’s accusation was hence perceived by Armand as a personal insult – a slanderous affront to his honour that could not be dismissed.

  I had always believed the common goal of our quest would be a unifying force capable of eliminating any rivalry that may have existed between our military orders. I just hope that the goal of successfully completing our mission will be enough to make the duellists see the triviality of their quarrel and lead to a peaceful resolution. Until that happens, we need to maintain vigilance over Armand and Diego, ensuring their blades are drawn only in the unified fight against the forces of darkness.

  After a short side-trip to a church in the town of Trikala – where, upon Armand’s insistence, both he and I filled water-skins with holy water and secured them to our belts – we made our way out of the Thessalian Plain. Von Konigsmarck then led us on a direct route to the Greek city-port of Piraeus, where a Greek sloop, The White Swan, was waiting to take us across the Mediterranean to the port of Jaffa, on the coast of Palestine.

  When we boarded The White Swan I was given the shock of my life. Captain Otto Blodklutt and Dietrich Hommel were waiting aboard the ship, bearing a letter from the Bishop of Paderborn, Ferdinand Reichsfreiherr von Fürstenberg, explaining that they had been sent to join our team. Apparently this had been arranged on the evening prior to our departure from the Hexenjäger barracks at Burg Grimmheim, as a precautionary measure designed to provide fresh blades to our company in the event we sustained casualties while obtaining the Blades of Gabriel. As only Friedrich Geist knew of this arrangement, it came as a complete surprise to the rest of us.

  I thought von Konigsmarck, outranked by Captain Blodklutt, may have been resentful of being relieved of his command, but the Lieutenant seemed to be more than happy to hand authority of the mission over to Blodklutt. I can only imagine that the burden of leading a team to recover an ancient artefact created with the sole purpose of destroying God’s Creation would be a source of constant stress to anyone, irrespective of how competent a commander they were. With the terrible weight of responsibility removed from his shoulders, von Konigsmarck had actually smiled for the first time.

  I will never forget the sense of elation I experienced when I first saw Blodklutt and Dietrich standing aboard The White Swan, for I knew that they would be invaluable additions to our company. Not only is Dietrich a former professional soldier, skilled with both blade and pistol, but he was one of my father’s closest friends, having fought together in the same mercenary unit in the Spanish Netherlands for over a decade, and I have started to see him as synonymous with my father. By no means do I consider him a replacement for the man who brought me into this world, but, through his recounting of adventures shared with my father, Dietrich has given life to the man I never knew. Indeed, the moment I saw Dietrich aboard The White Swan, I no longer felt anxious that I had become complacent in my quest to discover what had become of my father in the Low Countries.

  Whilst I had been recovering from the mission to Schloss Kriegsberg, it had become a daily ritual for Dietrich and me to meet every evening in the colonnaded walk bordering the central courtyard in Burg Grimmheim. Dietrich would tell me about the adventures he had shared with my father, such as the time they snuck over the city walls of Venlo to slit the throats of the unsuspecting guards and open the city gates to the besieging force. Or the time they were sent behind enem
y lines on a reconnaissance mission, infiltrating a Dutch camp, stealing battle plans, and ending up being chased for three days before making it back to the Spanish lines.

  For me, these stories became a vital means of fleshing out the character of my father, giving me a greater understanding of the qualities that made him such a respected cavalry commander. According to Dietrich, my father was a man of great daring, and he held a fierce loyalty towards his brothers-in-arms. He was the type of man who would never abandon a fallen companion, even if it meant facing an enemy force of thousands. But he was a man who also enjoyed moments of quiet repose, sometimes preferring the company of his own thoughts and his favourite pipe. He was quite the avid reader, too. Often, during breaks between campaigns, he would wander away from the military camp, find a quiet location and nestle his back against a tree trunk to read a book on hunting or a current theological debate that he would produce from the inside pocket of his cloak. But even during those moments, his eyes never lost their alert edge, as if he could spring to his feet at the first hint of trouble, his blade drawn.

  Listening to these tales brought me to a greater understanding of my own behaviour, and how my actions have been influenced by the blood running through my veins. I’m also sure that the evening discussions allowed Dietrich, his eyes glistening with excitement as he narrated each adventure, to reminisce about a friendship he shared with a man whom he considered a blood-brother. But there was also a sorrow in his eyes, almost as if he wished to return to the Spanish Netherlands to relive the adventures all over again.

  Although I don’t share such a close bond with Captain Blodklutt – who is a very private person, showing affection as readily as a miser spends a coin – having him join our party is a godsend. He is an able leader and master swordsman; not even Armand can best him. I’ve never before met such a serious-minded and determined figure. It’s almost as if he has taken a solemn vow to personally slay every witch and demon in existence, and his steel-grey eyes – hard and uncompromising even during moments of repose – reveal that he will let nothing stand in the way of him achieving this goal.

  Not only is Blodklutt an expert swordsman, but he is also trained in the use of the Malleus Maleficarum – the Hammer of the Witches – a copy of which he carries in a calfskin case by his side. This heavy, leather-bound volume is a veritable witch hunter’s handbook, providing detailed instructions on the detection and exorcism of Satan’s followers. It is also a magical tome, unlocking spells with which one can counter the dark arts, and I take great comfort in knowing that our team now comprises a witch hunter trained in the use of this powerful book.

  None of us had actually witnessed Friedrich Geist’s death, so we could only assume that he had died atop the monastery. As he had also known about the ship awaiting us in Piraeus, then surely he would have made his way to the port had he survived the encounter with the undead.

  It wasn’t until we were leaving Piraeus, however, that our suspicion that Friedrich had died atop Varlaam was confirmed. Just as we were pulling out from the wharf, I was standing aboard the ship’s deck, saying a silent farewell to Greece, when I looked down at the passing dock and noticed a figure, swathed in a black robe, watching us from the shadows of a nearby alley.

  Overcome by a terrible sense of foreboding, I found it impossible to draw my eyes away. Although a distance of over ten yards separated us, I was overwhelmed by the palpable evil that emanated from the robed figure. Feeling weak at the knees, I was forced to support myself against the deck railing, but I caught a glimpse of the figure’s face, and my blood froze.

  It was Friedrich Geist.

  But he was no longer the man I had once known, for he had been raised from the dead! His features were as pale as a cadaver’s, his eyes were white orbs of death, and his entire form was wracked by involuntary spasms, as if he was convulsing from some terrible poison.

  I cried out in alarm, but by the time my companions rushed to my side, Friedrich had withdrawn into the shadows of the alley and disappeared. We maintained a careful watch on the dock until our ship had sailed out of the port and moved into deeper waters, but there was no further sighting of the former commander of the Milites Christi.

  Blodklutt called a meeting, and we gathered in the cabin we had hired for the duration of our journey. For over an hour we discussed the dire consequences of Friedrich Geist having become one of the Watchers’ minions. Von Konigsmarck pointed out that Friedrich would not only be a terrifying opponent to face in combat, but that he knew our every move. He knew that we would make our way to Piraeus and board The White Swan. He also knew of our plans to disembark at Jaffa, to carry on to the southern bank of the Dead Sea, where Hans Wallenstein’s archaeological camp would reveal the location of the sunken city of Sodom, and of our plan to enter the sunken mausoleum via submersible vehicles. Having hand-picked our team, Friedrich also knew all of our strengths and weaknesses. And having been summoned back from the dead by one of the Watchers and transformed into a pawn of evil, Friedrich would have informed his new masters of every detail of our mission.

  Realising that the successful completion of our mission had become a desperate race against time, Blodklutt, after some careful consultation with Hans, made an important change to our original plans: rather than disembark at Jaffa, we would persuade the captain of The White Swan to take us further south along the coast of Palestine to the city of Ascalon. Ascalon, Hans had pointed out, was closer to the southern bank of the Dead Sea, and it would save us a day in travel. Furthermore, the secrecy of our mission now compromised, there was every possibility that the Watchers and a horde of undead may be waiting for us the second we disembarked at Jaffa. And that was an unnecessary risk Blodklutt was not prepared to take.

  During our second day aboard The White Swan, Francesca had questioned the captain of the vessel about the threat of pirates.

  ‘You’re worried about pirates, lass? Well, you should be, and particularly of the Barbary corsairs,’ the captain had said, turning his attention from a sailor he had just been berating for incorrectly fastening a sail. The captain’s voice was gruff and heavy with the smell of tobacco. ‘They hail from the North African Ottoman states of Algiers, Tunis and Tripoli. They prowl these waters in their narrow, shallow-drafted slave galleys, and are the scourge of Christian merchant shipping.’ He smiled cruelly as he looked Francesca over from top to toe, prompting her to look away in distaste. ‘You’d bring a pretty price in the slave markets of Algiers.’

  But the captain seemed more concerned about the ship that had been following us since we left Piraeus. This ship, a single-masted sloop bearing a Venetian flag, sailed at a constant distance of over a thousand yards behind us. Suspicious of their motive, the captain changed our course during our seventh night out from Piraeus and headed due south. Running with the wind behind us, we sped through the night. By the time dawn came there was no sign of the mysterious Venetian sloop and, returning to our original bearing, we continued on our journey to Ascalon without further incident.

  In the back of our minds, however, lay the concern that Friedrich Geist and the Watchers had taken control of a ship and manned her with a crew of the undead to set sail from Piraeus and come after us. All we could do was hope that the captain’s night-time ruse had been successful, and that the mysterious sloop would carry on to our original destination of Jaffa.

  The journey from Piraeus to Ascalon took twelve days, and during this time I got to know Francesca better. The fact that our worth in this mission had been questioned by some of our companions gave us common ground to stand on, and acted as a catalyst for us to seek out each other’s company. And so, every evening after dinner we would meet in a quiet section of the ship’s deck.

  At first our discussions focused on retelling the curt comments and disdainful looks we had received from Diego during that particular day. We would take great joy in telling each other what we would have liked to
have said back in defence, often breaking into laughter at how daring some of our rebukes were. But soon we started to learn more about each other’s lives.

  ‘My father is currently somewhere in the dark heart of Africa, searching for the legendary Kingdom of Prester John,’ Francesca had said one evening when we were sitting at the rear of the ship, in answer to my enquiry about her family. ‘He is a treasure-hunter, and ever since I can remember he has dragged me through burial sites, catacombs and tombs throughout Europe. Then, at the age of fifteen, I joined the Custodiatti. I have known no other life than that of a professional tomb-robber.’

  ‘That must have been hard on your mother,’ I said.

  Francesca smiled sadly. ‘My mother passed away when I was an infant. I have no memory of her at all.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I, too, lost my mother when I was very young.’

  Francesca gave me a sympathetic look. ‘And your father?’

  I shook my head and looked across at the setting sun. ‘He was a cavalry commander who fought against the French in the Low Countries. My uncle and aunt led me to believe that he died when I was four. But I only recently found out that he may still be alive, having been captured by the French over a decade ago and imprisoned in a gaol in Rotterdam.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Francesca said. ‘At least it gives you hope that he may still be alive.’

  I nodded. ‘And I plan on going into the Dutch Republic once this mission is over. I want to find out what happened to him.’

  Francesca’s eyes narrowed in concern. ‘That will be dangerous. The Dutch are at war with the English. Surely you plan on taking some of your friends along with you – Armand, for instance? He seems very close to you. I very much doubt he’d let you enter the Dutch Republic on your own.’