The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  ‘Armand has become my closest friend. I’d be grateful for any help he can offer, especially if I have to sneak into the gaols of Rotterdam.’

  There was a pause as we looked out across the sea. ‘You mentioned an uncle and aunt before,’ Francesca said at length. ‘I take it they raised you after your mother passed away?’

  ‘That’s correct. My uncle is the finest farrier in Dresden,’ I said. ‘I was going to begin my apprenticeship as a Warden in the Brotherhood of Farriers. But then I decided to join the Hexenjäger. And look where that has landed me – sailing across the Mediterranean, being hunted by fallen angels.’

  Francesca bit her bottom lip in thought. ‘We’re all worried about the Watchers; even Armand, although I don’t think he’d ever admit to it. But you should think more on the positive side of things. If you hadn’t joined the Hexenjäger, you would have never been sent on this mission.’ She paused to nudge me with her elbow. ‘And then we would never have met.’

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ I said, comforted by the bond of friendship we had formed.

  ‘I’ve never really had the chance to make friends,’ Francesca had then confided, her expression sad. ‘Travelling all over Europe, moving from country to country, I’ve met many people. But long-lasting friendships have been impossible for me to form. Not long after my father and I would arrive in a town and start to get to know the locals, we would move off, following the next set of clues as to where some ancient treasure was buried. It would be nice just to settle down, to have some sense of stability in my life.’

  ‘I thought you would have had no problem at making friends,’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Why? Because some would consider me attractive?’

  I felt the blood run to my cheeks, caught off-guard by the brusqueness of her comment. I cleared my throat, too embarrassed to answer her question.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Francesca said. ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.’ She gave a frustrated sigh and lowered her eyes sadly. ‘Please don’t consider me conceited for what I am about to say, but beauty can be a curse. Women resent me, while men want me to be their possession. Ever since I was fifteen, men have thrown themselves at me, and it brings out the worst in their nature. Three men have died in petty duels over me – men whom I never even knew. Others become braggarts, showing off to their friends, trying to charm me with their wit and expensive clothing, strutting around me like birds trying to lure a mate.’

  Armand wandered across the deck, noticed Francesca, and tilted the brim of his hat in greeting. He struck a perfectly nonchalant pose, with his right foot propped against a lower rung of the side rail, his hands planted firmly on his hips, and his jaw raised to the breeze, as if he were a king posing for a heroic portrait. All the while, he cast sidelong glances at Francesca, making sure that his grand performance was duly noted.

  Francesca shook her head and, in spite of herself, smiled. ‘Do you see what I mean?’ she said, covering her mouth with her sleeve so as to not encourage the Frenchman. ‘May the Lord give me strength. Armand is the biggest lyrebird of them all. I’m shocked that he hasn’t looked over the railing to check if he can see his reflection in the water.’

  ‘He’s harmless,’ I laughed, shaking my head at Armand and waving him away. ‘He’s only doing that for our amusement.’

  Armand gave me a baffled look, as if asking what could have possibly been the problem. Smiling to himself in a self-satisfied manner, he then sauntered off, giving a final flourish of his coat as the closing scene of his performance.

  ‘Amusing or not, it becomes tiring,’ Francesca sighed, watching Armand walk away. ‘It has also made me very wary of men, for they put on such a show around me that I never get to see their true nature. But I believe I have made a friend in you, Jakob. My first true friend, in fact. You seem to understand me better than anybody I have met.’

  I had smiled softly in return, the feeling mutual, but all the while knowing that Sabina would be fuming if she were to learn of the friendship I had formed with the Italian tomb-robber.

  It was mid-morning when we disembarked The White Swan and entered the alien world of Ascalon. I had found the white-washed walls of Greek houses strange, but nothing could have prepared me for what I encountered in the bustling Ottoman port.

  Feeling like a crusader newly arrived in the Holy Land, I followed my companions out of the port area, making our way through a labyrinth of twisting alleyways choked with vendors and street stalls selling myriads of goods, including silken clothing, ointments, woven wall-hangings, dates, herbs and exotic fruit. The air was heavy with the scent of spices and incense, and clothing, hung out to dry on lengths of rope that stretched across the alleyways, lay still in the already sweltering heat. Mosaics adorned the walls of the houses of the wealthy, and vines and palms grew in carefully manicured gardens located in shaded courtyards. Every street seemed to have its own public baths and a domed mosque, from which Arabic prayers could be heard; a constant reminder that we had now travelled deep into the Islamic Ottoman Empire.

  Having made our way to the outskirts of the city, Hans, who spoke the local dialect, bartered with a stable owner, procuring for us new mounts and supplies. We then rode off across the barren landscape of the Judean Desert, and arrived two days later at Hans’s archaeological camp on the southern bank of the Dead Sea.

  And now, lying back on a makeshift pillow, I close my eyes, feeling myself drift off to sleep, safe with the knowledge that Captain Blodklutt and von Konigsmarck are keeping watch over the encampment. In the back of my mind, however, lurks a dreadful premonition that something terrible is going to befall us the next day – for tomorrow we are to journey to the bottom of the Dead Sea to enter a trap-riddled mausoleum that has remained hidden from mankind for several millennia.

  ‘Jakob, wake up.’

  I open my eyes and lie motionless for a few seconds, staring into the darkness, trying to register where I am, and vaguely aware of a voice that has called my name.

  ‘Jakob. You need to get up.’

  ‘What? Armand?’ I say and, rolling onto my back, stare at the dark figure leaning over me. ‘Please, can’t you let me sleep a little longer?’ I protest. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  I move to roll back onto my side, desirous of catching a few more hours of sleep, but Armand shakes me by the shoulder. ‘Get up,’ he insists, a desperate edge to his voice, and drags me to my feet. ‘I know this isn’t the most ceremonious of ways to get you out of bed, but we need you on your feet. We’ve got a problem, and we need you outside – now.’

  ‘A problem?’ I ask, slinging my baldrics over my shoulders and wiping the sleep from my eyes as I am directed out of the tent. ‘What do you mean?’

  Armand raises a finger to his lips and gestures for me to follow him into the centre of the camp. All of my companions, and the six archaeological assistants who have made Hans’s camp home for the past nine months, have assembled on the shore of the Dead Sea, staring apprehensively into the darkness of the night, their hands on their weapons.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask hesitantly, and draw my Pappenheimer halfway from its scabbard.

  ‘Listen,’ Armand whispers, and points to the northwest.

  I crane an ear in the direction indicated, but all is deathly still; the Judean Desert smothered in the black mantle of the night. I’m curious as to what has my companions so spooked, and I’m about to tell them that they should retire for the evening and get some much needed rest, when I hear it.

  A sound, so faint that it can barely be heard, drifts across the desert sands and the still waters of the Dead Sea – a terrible wailing chorus, seemingly made by thousands of tortured souls.

  I stare fearfully into the darkness, wondering what horrific secret is hidden by the night. ‘What’s causing that sound?’ I breathe, fearful of the answer I will receive. />
  ‘We don’t know. But it can’t be good,’ Armand whispers.

  ‘It sounds as though the gates of Hell have opened and the dead have risen,’ von Konigsmarck says, and adds some extra wood to the camp’s central fire, hoping to extend the perimeter of light.

  As if von Konigsmarck’s comment has triggered some memory, Hans’s eyes flash in alarm and he takes a few hesitant steps forward. He stares hard into the night, looking out across the dark expanse of the Dead Sea. Some time passes before he looks back at us, his features drained of colour.

  ‘What is it?’ Captain Blodklutt asks, staring out to where Hans had been looking.

  ‘I fear von Konigsmarck may be correct. The gates of Hell may have indeed been opened!’

  ‘The sound is coming from the northwest. Jerusalem lies over that way,’ Hans says and points across the Dead Sea. ‘Early Jewish writings tell of a valley located south of the walls of the Old City. It is now called the Valley of Hinnom, but in the past it was known as Gehenna. Long before the birth of Christ, the valley was used as a dumping ground for dead brigands and criminals. Many were heaped in mass graves. Others were burnt in a great fire, which, it is said, burned eternally.’

  ‘It sounds a lot like Hell,’ Diego comments, shifting uncomfortably, and kissing the rosary hanging from his neck.

  Hans nods in confirmation. ‘The early Jews and Christians believed Gehenna was Hell. It was a realm in which the souls of sinners were tortured for an eternity.’ He looks back in the direction of the Valley of Hinnom. ‘I fear the Watchers may have raised the dead of Gehenna from their mass graves. And if they have, then we don’t have long. By sunrise, they will be here. And they will come in their thousands.’

  Every hair on my body standing on end, I blink back against the impossibility of what I have just heard. An army of the undead coming straight for us! We might as well give up this very moment. We won’t stand a chance against them.

  ‘We need to get out of here!’ I gasp, and look in the opposite direction from which the sound is coming, wondering how far we will be able to flee before the undead reach our camp.

  Dietrich comes over and pats me reassuringly on the shoulder in an attempt to assuage my fears. ‘There’s no need for that. Not just yet, at least,’ he says, then turns to face the others. ‘I don’t think we should be jumping to conclusions. We don’t know for certain that the dead of Gehenna have risen. The sound could be some trick played by the wind as it blows across the desert sands. Until we find out what’s causing that noise, I don’t think we should do anything rash.’

  ‘But there has been no wind this night – the desert is still,’ Hans says, shaking his head, convinced that he is correct. ‘I have lived in these deserts for years, and I’ve never heard a sound like this before. I don’t think it’s merely a coincidence that Gehenna lies in the direction the sound is coming from, and the Watchers, who have the ability to raise the dead – and who also have Friedrich Geist as one of their minions – are no doubt headed to this exact location. If they were indeed aboard the ship that followed us out of Piraeus, and they were following our initial route, then they would have disembarked at Jaffa. And the most direct route from Jaffa to here passes straight through Jerusalem. I don’t want to cause unnecessary alarm, but I firmly believe that the gates of Gehenna have been opened.’

  ‘Well, let’s assume that an army of undead is heading towards us. What do we do now?’ Armand asks.

  ‘We stand our ground,’ Diego snarls, as if making a point to Armand. ‘We let the sand taste their blood!’

  I look incredulously at the Spaniard. We need a solution to our predicament, and this is not the time for suicidal acts of bravado. Nor do we have the luxury of spending hours debating different strategies. If Hans is correct, then the undead may reach us within four to five hours. But as much as I would like to hear Captain Blodklutt announce that we are to abandon the camp and seek refuge in the infinitely vast Judean Desert, I know that he will prioritise searching for the Tablet of Breaking. This will be a perilous task, and I fear that not all of us will survive rushing through the trap-riddled mausoleum. But if we abandon our mission, and the Watchers locate and activate the relic, it will mean Armageddon! We are the last chance humanity has, and fleeing for our lives will serve no purpose at all other than sealing the fate of our world.

  ‘We need to get down into the mausoleum before the Watchers arrive here,’ Blodklutt says, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Hans – you believe they will be here by sunrise?’

  ‘Yes, possibly even earlier.’

  ‘Then we only have some four hours left,’ Otto announces, his eyes narrowing determinedly. ‘We are going to have to enter the mausoleum sooner than we had planned. We’ll be going down tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? Is that possible?’ Armand asks Hans, erring on the side of caution. ‘I know we have to enter the mausoleum as soon as possible, but are your vessels capable of taking us down there in the dead of the night?’

  ‘It makes no difference when you are deep under the water,’ Hans says. ‘Even if it were the middle of the day, the only source of light we would have inside the Drebbel would be the lanterns we take with us. The mausoleum has its own ingenious source of lighting.’

  Armand scratches his chin nervously. ‘So it will be safe?’

  ‘Rest assured, we will be perfectly safe.’

  ‘Well, that’s good then,’ Armand says, and looks askance at the rest of us, almost as if in chagrin, concerned that we may have detected a flaw in his brave character.

  ‘How long will it take us to get down there?’ Blodklutt asks, readjusting the baldric slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Not long at all,’ Hans returns. ‘Although the da Vinci still requires some work, the Drebbel is ready to dive. As soon as you give the order, we can be down in the mausoleum in less than an hour.’

  Hans then explains that the Drebbel is moored beside a pontoon, located some two hundred yards from the shore. Having rowed out to the pontoon in two ten-men skiffs, we would enter the Drebbel, flood its ballast tanks – a process that would take some ten minutes – and begin our descent.

  In order to ensure that we would be able to navigate our way to the mausoleum, a massive length of rope – one end of which was attached to a winch located atop the pontoon – ran down through the water to the mausoleum’s air-filled entry chamber, looped through a securely fastened iron rung, and then ran back up to the Drebbel, where it was fastened to the nose of the vehicle. With the archaeological assistants manning the winch, we would be hauled to the bottom of the Dead Sea and surface inside the mausoleum’s entry chamber. Having drained the ballast tanks via pumps and untied the Drebbel from the rope – which would then be pulled through the iron rung and then reattached to the vessel – the Drebbel would be ready to be hauled back to the pontoon.

  The only question was whether we would be able to locate the Tablet of Breaking and return to the surface before the Watchers and their army of undead descended upon the camp. And this is where the success of our mission would depend solely on the talents of Francesca Cannovaro, the most talented member of the Custodiatti and the only person in our team with the necessary skills to circumvent the mausoleum’s traps.

  Once Hans has finished explaining the nature of our descent, Blodklutt directs us to return to our tents and gather all that we will need for the mission. I walk over to my tent and, looking back over my shoulder, notice that Armand has not yet moved off. Instead, he’s staring after Francesca.

  ‘I hope you’re as good as people say you are,’ he calls out to her.

  Francesca stops at the entrance of her tent. ‘If you can get me down into the mausoleum,’ she calls back, disdain evident in her voice, ‘and keep the undead away from me, then I’ll find you the Hall of Records and the Tablet of Breaking. But it would be best for you to just focus on your job, and stop
worrying about me.’

  ‘Which is easier said than done when there might be an army of thousands coming after us,’ Armand says dryly. ‘I’m just not sure as to how much time we can buy you.’

  Francesca looks back at Armand, and her lips part in preparation to say something. After a moment of deliberation, she smiles confidently and enters her tent.

  Not long after, Captain Blodklutt gives the order to collect our weapons and supplies, we assemble on the shoreline, climb into the skiffs, and set off for the pontoon. With only lanterns to guide our way across the still, black waters, we row out into the darkness, the silence of the night disturbed only by the rhythmic splash of our oars.

  In an attempt to relieve my anxiety, I check my weapons and equipment. In addition to my rapiers, which hang from my sides on baldrics. My two preloaded pistols are tucked into my belt, and dual daggers are concealed in the sides of my boots. Like every other member of the expedition, I am also carrying a pack, almost brimming with equipment that may be vital for my survival if I am to successfully navigate my way through the mausoleum’s intricate trap system: three lengths of rope, one if which is fitted with a grappling hook; several flasks of oil; a tinder and flint; a piece of chalk; one dozen, six-inch-long iron spikes; and a small hammer. Captain Blodklutt, Hans, Francesca, Diego and Armand also carry oil lanterns, which are strapped to their belts so as to allow them to wield their weapons.

  And then, of course, there is my most prized weapon – a Dagger of Gabriel – tucked into my belt alongside my pistols. With the exception of Hans – who is even less experienced in combat than I – each of my companions is similarly armed with one of the daggers, and their mere presence fills us with strength and hope. Should we encounter the Watchers, we will be able to defend ourselves.

  I cannot help but notice that Armand has changed into his crimson Hexenjäger attire, which he carried in his saddle bags all the way from Saxony. He is readjusting the folds of his cloak, making sure that he has access to the hilts of his sabres.