The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  ‘And how do we do that?’

  I look up at the platform, and an idea suddenly comes to mind. ‘By using our ropes and grappling hooks. We loop them over the platform, ensuring the grappling hooks lock onto either the rope itself or an edge of the platform. Then we simply climb up.’

  Francesca smiles. ‘If you ever feel like leaving the Hexenjäger, I’d be glad to take you on as my apprentice. You show real promise.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer,’ I say. ‘But your life isn’t for me. Besides, I could never leave the Hexenjäger. They’ve become my brothers.’

  I didn’t intend my comment as an insult, and I’m surprised when a hurt expression crosses Francesca’s face, as if I have struck some tender chord. It lasts only a second, however, before she regains her confident manner.

  ‘Let’s just get out of here first,’ Blodklutt barks, overhearing our conversation, and drawing us back to the need for urgent action. He snatches a piece of chalk from a pocket and draws a pentagram on the floor, covering the entire area at the base of the door, which is starting to give way, having been pushed back an inch or two by the undead. He then produces the Malleus Maleficarum – the Hammer of the Witches – from its calfskin case.

  ‘They’ll be through the door any second now, and we need to buy some time,’ he says, flicking through the pages of the heavy text. Finding the required page, he starts to read in a strange language that sounds like some variant of Latin.

  As Francesca and I throw our grappling hooks to loop them around the platform, and Armand completes bandaging Dietrich’s wounds and assists him to his feet, the Captain finishes casting his spell. The chalk outline of the pentagram flares like ignited gunpowder. The sudden blaze of light lasts for only a second before it fades away, leaving the entire area of the pentagram glowing in a soft, blue pulsating light.

  No sooner has the Captain finished casting his spell, than the door bursts wide open, and the screaming horde of undead storm into the chamber.

  May the Lord protect us!

  The first of the undead to push through the entrance receives the full force of von Konigsmarck’s pistol – and at four yards, the effect is shocking. The zombie’s head explodes and the body is thrown back into the surging horde.

  But there are hundreds of the undead that swarm through – only to run into Blodklutt’s trap. The pentagram flares to life, and the soft blue light becomes blinding, turning all the undead that attempt to cross it into ash.

  ‘How long will that hold them?’ von Konigsmarck yells over the screaming legion of undead, which are now amassing in the doorway, wary of entering the chamber.

  ‘Not long enough,’ Blodklutt calls back. ‘It might buy us a minute or two.’

  ‘And that’s all we need,’ Francesca says determinedly. ‘Quick – up the ropes.’

  And so our frantic climb begins. With Francesca and Armand leading, we hoist ourselves up to the platform and stare fearfully down at the undead, which are now going berserk seeing their quarry escape. Driven by an uncontrollable bloodlust, some of them attempt to test the power of the pentagram, only to be incinerated within seconds.

  It’s as we are rushing across the platform, making our way across to the doorway, that Dietrich, struggling to support his weight with his injured leg, loses his footing. Before we have time to reach out and grab hold of him, he topples from the platform.

  As if viewing the scene through the misty panes of some terrible dream, I watch helplessly as Dietrich falls to the unforgiving stone floor, landing flat on his back with shocking force.

  Before Blodklutt can bark out an order for me to remain on the platform, I climb over the edge and slide down the rope. Armand attempts to follow after me, but he is stopped by von Konigsmarck, who drags him, yelling, across to the doorway.

  Reaching the floor, I race across to Dietrich, but realise that the situation is hopeless. His breath is coming in constricted gasps, and he is unable to move, having received a terrible injury to the rear of his head. Beyond the blue light of Captain Blodklutt’s pentagram, the undead are in a frenzy.

  ‘I always thought . . . that I would have died alongside your father in . . . the Low Countries,’ he says, his words barely audible. He pauses as spasms of pain wrack his body. ‘But fortune has been kind to me, sparing . . . my life for another twelve years. But never, not even in my . . . wildest dreams, did I ever think . . . that this is how it would end – trapped beneath a mausoleum . . . at the bottom of the Dead Sea. Fate . . . can be cruel.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I say, shaking my head, tears forming in my eyes. ‘There is still hope. I will help you. We can climb back up again.’

  But Dietrich knows that my words are hollow, and he smiles sadly, knowing that this is where he will die. Wincing against the effort, he reaches over and holds my hand. ‘Young Jakob, you are so . . . like your father. But there are some things . . . about your father . . . that I have kept secret. I didn’t want . . . to tarnish your opinion of him. But this might be my last chance . . . to tell you, so listen carefully.’

  Ignoring Blodklutt’s frantic cries that I climb back up to the platform, I lean in close so that I can hear Dietrich’s fading voice. I grip his hand firmly, almost as if in an attempt to hold him in the land of the living, to prevent him from slipping away.

  ‘In the Andalusian region of southern Spain . . . there is a town called Ronda, where there lives a sixteen-year-old boy . . . named Arturo Silvestre de Guzmán, and his . . . fourteen-year-old sister, Dona Teresa. They are your half-brother . . . and half-sister.’

  ‘What?’ I blurt, stunned, blinking against the impossibility of this news.

  ‘Tobias – your father – loved . . . your mother dearly,’ Dietrich explains. ‘But there was . . . another woman who also . . . stole his heart. As you know, your father . . . spent time in Spain, working for . . . the Count of Seville, and it was . . . during this time that he met . . . the cousin of the Marquis of Ayamonte. Despite the fact . . . that her family . . . spurned Tobias, for he was merely a . . . Captain of Horse, a professional soldier of humble . . . birth, they fell in love and . . . had two children: Arturo and Dona Teresa.’ Dietrich smiles, content that he has stalled death’s cold embrace long enough to reveal this secret. ‘What you do with . . . this knowledge is up to you, but I . . . thought it best that you know.’

  A savage roar from the undead momentarily draws my attention, and by the time I look back at Dietrich he has died. I stare silently at his still form.

  Blodklutt calls out to warn me that I must escape from the chamber this very instant. I kiss Dietrich gently on the forehead. I make the sign of the cross, retrieve Dietrich’s Dagger of Gabriel and climb back up the rope.

  Only a few seconds after I reach the platform and we pull up the ropes, the pentagram fails and the undead swarm through the doorway.

  In a matter of seconds, the chamber is wall to wall with the frenzied horde. Blinded by their bloodlust and paying no attention to the scimitar-like blades, they swarm up the column, determined to catch us. The individual sections of the column groan to life, driven by some ancient mechanism, and start to rotate.

  At first they move slowly, allowing the undead to reach the middle section with relative ease, using the blades as handholds and footholds, rather like climbing branches spanning the trunk of some great tree. But then the rotating sections gather momentum, and the grinding of stone is soon drowned by the hum of the whirling blades. The undead, unable to continue climbing, hold on tight. But it’s only a matter of time before they are flung from the column, only to be shredded into a thousand pieces by the blades, which plaster the walls of the chamber in gore.

  I avert my eyes from the scene of carnage and say a final prayer for Dietrich. Then, with Armand placing a sympathetic hand on my shoulder, I follow my companions across the platform and exit the chamber.

&
nbsp; We gather in silence in the adjoining corridor, our eyes lowered in grief. I know we’re all overwhelmed by the idea that, even if this mission is successful and we manage to destroy the Tablet of Breaking, it has come at a terrible price. Blodklutt and Armand have lost a loyal friend and trusted companion. One of the first members of the Hexenjäger, Dietrich had been like a foundation stone for the order, and it will be some time before the Hexenjäger recovers from his loss.

  My mind awash with mixed emotions, I take a few steps away from my companions, needing a moment to collect my thoughts. I am consumed by grief for the loss of Dietrich, but beneath this a seed of betrayal has been planted. I had formed a picture in my mind that my father was a person of noble qualities – a charismatic and skilled cavalry commander, highly regarded by those who followed him, and a loyal husband and loving father. Dietrich had initially informed me that my father had been torn between his love for my mother and the call in his blood to lead the life of a professional soldier. I had imagined that his decision to return to Spain, having married my mother and started a family, would have been a source of constant pain and anguish. I had brought myself to believe that whilst my father had campaigned in the Low Countries, he would have thought of me every day, wondering if his sole son was growing up in his image. But now I’m left wondering how much truth there had been in Dietrich’s words, and to what extent my father’s decision to return to Spain had been governed by his desire to return to the arms of his Spanish mistress.

  The perfect image I had created of my father has been stained by his indiscretions. But now is not the right time to sort through my emotions. That will have to wait for another day, when I have the time to sit down and properly reflect upon what I have learned. Until then, I just need to focus on staying alive.

  ‘It will be some time before the undead work out how to reach the platform,’ Francesca says at length, respectful of our loss yet aware that we must press on ahead. ‘But they will find a way. It’s best we continue.’

  ‘Francesca’s right,’ Blodklutt says, driven by his desire to complete the mission. ‘There will be time later to grieve for the fallen. We need to make sure that Dietrich did not die in vain. With each successive chamber and corridor we pass through, we draw closer to the Hall of Records. So let’s find the Tablet of Breaking and end this.’

  Armand comes over and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. ‘I know you had become close to Dietrich,’ he says, his voice low so that the others can’t hear. ‘He provided a vital link to your past. His death will be hard for you to accept. Are you going to be all right?’

  I smile sadly. ‘I’m going to have to be. I don’t have much of a choice, do I? We’re making our way through a trap-riddled mausoleum, pursued by an army of undead and the Watchers. It’s not as if we have time to stop to grieve.’

  ‘The life of a witch hunter is full of danger,’ Armand says. ‘Each day we don our weapons and ride out of Burg Grimmheim, never knowing if we will return. Only the Lord knows such things. And leaving behind a fallen comrade, without even giving them the respect of a proper burial, is never easy. But Dietrich could not have given his life for a greater cause. And he would want us to carry on – to see this mission through to the very end.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, fighting back tears. ‘But it was all so sudden. One minute Dietrich was running by my side. And then he was gone.’

  ‘At least he didn’t suffer too much,’ Armand says. ‘Let’s not dwell on that for now. I don’t want to sound callous, but we must press on ahead. We still have a job to do, and we need to keep our wits about us.’

  I follow Armand back to the others, and we walk up the corridor. It ends at an archway, beyond which lies a dark chamber, its walls absent of torches. This new room is roughly fifteen yards wide, but it stretches back for a considerable distance, running all the way to the edge of our lantern-light, where it appears to gives access to an antechamber.

  ‘This looks easy enough,’ von Konigsmarck says, and is about to step into the room, when he is stopped by Francesca.

  ‘Don’t enter the chamber,’ she warns, her eyes narrowing warily. ‘I have a bad feeling that the second we enter the room a trap will be sprung. But what that is, I do not know.’

  She pulls the nearest torch from its bracket on the corridor wall and throws it down the chamber, revealing that there is indeed an antechamber at the far end.

  Kneeling, the tomb-robber glides a hand over the sandstone floor, just where the room begins. Removing the dust, she discovers a fine crack, revealing that the floor of the room we are about to enter is separated from the floor of the corridor we have just passed through. She also draws our attention to the fact that the walls of the room are not joined to the ceiling and floor, being separated by a gap of two finger-widths.

  Francesca rises to her feet and looks across at the distant antechamber, calculating the distance. ‘This entire floor is one great pressure-stone. The instant we step on it, the walls are going to start closing in. Anyone who doesn’t make it to the antechamber in time will be crushed to death.’

  Armand straps his baldrics tighter across his shoulders. ‘So this is purely a test of speed?’

  Francesca nods. ‘I’m afraid so. Hopefully I can buy us a few extra seconds by hammering some pitons into the gap beneath the walls. It certainly won’t stop the walls from closing in on us, but it might just stall them long enough for us to make it across to the other side.’

  Putting her plan into action, Francesca wedges a number of pitons beneath the walls. She then advises us to follow Armand’s lead and tighten our baldrics, eliminating the risk of tripping over our swords.

  ‘We’ll go across in one group. Whatever happens, don’t stop,’ she says.

  Then, upon her command, we set off across the room. We have barely covered a few feet before the floor is activated. There’s a deafening grinding sound as the walls start to close in with startling speed.

  As we race forward, Armand, the fastest in our company, streaks ahead of the rest of us, and it’s when he reaches the halfway point, and we are following some three yards behind, that disaster strikes – and the floor suddenly opens beneath his feet.

  The cry caught in his throat, he falls into the pit.

  Racing forward at breakneck speed, we barely have time to react. Only a heartbeat after we see Armand fall into the three-yard-wide pit, we find ourselves leaping instinctively over it. Reaching the other side, Blodklutt, von Konigsmarck and Francesca race for the archway, but I pull up sharply, determined to save Armand or die in the effort.

  With the walls pressing in, I return to the edge of the pit – which drops into unknown darkness – and punch a hand victoriously in the air when I find that Armand has somehow managed to grab hold of the edge.

  ‘We’re making a habit of this, aren’t we?’ Armand grimaces, winded, as he struggles to maintain his hold.

  Without a second to lose, I reach down and haul Armand out of the pit. But as we are about to continue our flight from the room, we see that our companions, having reached the safety of the antechamber, are looking back at us in alarm. The room is now only four yards wide, and Armand and I will never make it to the other side in time.

  In only a matter of seconds, we will be crushed to death.

  ‘Make for the pit and climb down!’ Francesca cries, knowing that we cannot reach the antechamber in time.

  ‘What?’Armand yells, his eyes wide with terror. ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘Francesca’s right,’ I say, grabbing Armand by the shirt and pulling him back towards the pit. ‘Forget trying to outrun the walls. We will never make it in time. Just trust me. Do exactly as I do.’

  Praying that Francesca’s earlier observation was correct – that there is indeed a one-inch gap between the floor of the room and the sliding walls – I lay on my belly and lower myself into the pit,
Armand copying my every move. The walls are now only a yard apart. Dangling from our fingertips – with the sheer walls of the pit illuminated by the lantern hanging from Armand’s belt – we hold our breath. Our hearts beat wildly as the walls, elevated two finger-breadths above the floor, brush past our fingers and slam shut, sealing us within the pit.

  For a while, Armand and I hang from the top of the pit, amazed that we are still alive.

  ‘Well done, Jakob,’ Armand says at length. ‘I owe you my life. We have escaped the jaws of death by jumping straight into them.’ By the light cast by his lantern, he considers our new surroundings. Finding only stone walls, and the pit entrance now sealed, he looks across at me. There is genuine fear in his eyes. ‘But where do we go from here?’

  I shake my head. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I just wanted to get us away from the walls. I know things aren’t good, but at least we’re alive.’

  Armand readjusts his grip on the sharp stone edge of the pit. ‘We won’t be for long, though. It will only be a matter of time before our fingers cramp and we fall.’ He stares down into the darkness below us. ‘And I’m not looking forward to that.’

  Knowing that Armand is correct, and already feeling the strain on my fingers, I look around the pit, searching for a way out. It is three yards wide and slightly shorter in length, with sheer vertical walls descending into darkness. The walls are comprised of massive stone slabs that have been joined perfectly together, leaving no possible handholds. Above us, sealing the pit, are the closed sections of wall, weighing well over a hundred tonnes.

  ‘It’s pointless in trying to move the sealed walls above us,’ I say, having completed my assessment of the pit. ‘So that means the only way out of here appears to be straight down.’