The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  But the blade never reaches its target. For, abandoning its own sword, the Watcher’s hands lash out, grabbing Armand’s wrists, stopping the dagger a mere finger’s-width from its neck. Its strength prodigious, the Watcher rises to its feet, twists the blade around, and forces it back on Armand.

  Struggling to hold the Watcher back, Armand drops to his knees and stares at the dagger only inches from his throat. Even when von Konigsmarck rushes to his side and locks his own fingers around the hilt of the dagger, their combined strength is not enough to stop the Watcher.

  Knowing that it is only a matter of seconds before Armand is killed, Francesca and I race to his rescue. Snatching the dagger from my belt, I give a tremendous yell and go to plunge the weapon into the Watcher’s side. But the Watcher lashes out with a savage kick, making the wind explode from my chest, and leaving me in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  Struggling to gain my breath, I watch through tear-filled eyes as Francesca leaps onto the Watcher’s back and locks her forearms around its neck in a vicious choke-hold. But even this has no effect, and the Watcher drives the blade so close to Armand’s neck that it pierces his skin, drawing blood.

  Dear God! Not Armand!

  I force myself to overcome the pain in my chest as I struggle to my feet. Staggering back into the fray, I reach for the only weapon I know that can turn the tide of this fight. Armand was not the only one to have filled a water-skin with holy water back in Greece. Ripping out the stopper, I aim my waterskin at the Watcher’s face and squeeze.

  The result is immediate.

  Francesca leaps free from the Watcher’s back as it screams and writhes in agony. Releasing its hold of the dagger, it staggers back to the archway, clawing at the hellish nightmare that has become its face, allowing von Konigsmarck and I to assist Armand back to his feet and ready our weapons.

  Determined to slay the Watcher before it recovers from the holy water, Armand chases after it and drives his Dagger of Gabriel deep into its chest. With a blood-choked cry, the Watcher collapses to its knees and stares in disbelief at Armand. Never before has it tasted the bite of a Dagger of Gabriel – a weapon fashioned in Heaven’s forges with the sole purpose of slaying it – wielded by one of the most talented swordsmen in the Hexenjäger.

  Placing a foot against the fallen angel’s chest, Armand draws free his dagger and von Konigsmarck’s rapier, which was still skewered through the Watcher’s chest. He holds the Watcher’s stare for a few seconds, flicks the blood free from the rapier, and pushes the Watcher with his foot, knocking it to the ground, where it dies in a pool of its own blood.

  Meanwhile, off to our right, Captain Blodklutt has re-engaged the other Watcher. Leaping back from a heavy thrust, he darts to his left, drawing it after him. Suddenly he twists back to his right, catching the Watcher off-balance. Before it can form an effective defence, Blodklutt’s rapier snakes out, swatting the Watcher’s blade away from its body, leaving it exposed to the Captain’s dagger, which lashes out faster than a striking asp and leaves a deep gash across its forehead.

  ‘That’s an old but effective trick,’ Armand says, sucking in air and nodding his head in approval, noting the blood stream down into the Watcher’s eyes. ‘With its vision spoilt, it’s going to be difficult for the Watcher to continue. This fight is practically over.’

  With its blade raised defensively, the Watcher tries to withdraw, wiping at the blood with its free hand. But Blodklutt gives it no reprieve. Crouched low, his features contorted in pain against his wounded shoulder, he comes after the fallen angel like a wolf at hunt, his dual blades glistening like bared fangs. He feigns to lunge with his dagger, drawing the Watcher’s sword away from its body, leaving it vulnerable. Then, leaping into the air, he delivers a savage swipe across the Watcher’s face with his rapier, the sheer ferocity of the attack forcing the Watcher to whip its head sharply to the left, knocking it off-balance.

  The Watcher slashes out wildly with its sword in a last-ditch attempt to kill its attacker, but Blodklutt ducks beneath the blade, and rises before the Watcher in preparation to drive his dagger deep into its heart. The Watcher wipes frantically at the blood smeared across its eyes, momentarily clearing its vision, and stares at the Captain. Before Blodklutt can deliver his attack, the Watcher growls a command in some ancient tongue, and invisible shackles of magic force Blodklutt to freeze.

  Blood streaming into its eyes once more, the Watcher somehow manages to pry the dagger from the Captain’s fingers. It then heaves back its sword to deliver a blow that will cleave Blodklutt in two. Its blade lifted high in the air, it pauses for only a second to wipe the blood once more from its eyes. But that’s all the time it takes for Armand to react.

  With a speed which leaves me gaping, he hurls his Dagger of Gabriel across the room . . . to thud, blade-first, deep into the Watcher’s throat. The fallen angel staggers back for a few seconds, the sword slipping from its fingers to clatter on the stone floor. Then, with a final, hellish roar, it falls dead to the ground.

  The fight is over. I collect my pistol and slump to my knees, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. The events of the past few weeks have taken a heavy toll on me, leaving me both physically and mentally drained. There hasn’t been a moment to rest since this mission started. Even whilst crossing the Mediterranean Sea aboard The White Swan, Armand had insisted that, rather than sit in idle contemplation, I should continue my sword training, and it was not long before the deck, much to the captain’s annoyance, was scuffed with our shoe marks, and the squeal of our blades carried across the still blue waters.

  But now, with the way back blocked by the sealed walls, preventing further pursuit, and two Watchers lying dead at our feet, we have been granted a brief repose. I believe that there may be hope for us yet to discover the Tablet of Breaking. For the first time since entering the mausoleum, I feel that we may actually survive this mission.

  ‘So they can be killed,’ von Konigsmarck says, nudging one of the Watchers with the toe of his boot. He stares down at its face with morbid curiosity, his lips curled in distaste.

  ‘They can, but it wasn’t easy,’ Blodklutt remarks, free from the Watcher’s spell. His tone is sombre as he clutches his wounded shoulder. ‘It took all of our combined efforts to bring them down. And two still remain, one of which is their leader, Shemyaza. We may have been victorious on this occasion, but, mark my words, this fight is far from over.’

  Armand retrieves the Dagger of Gabriel from the Watcher’s throat. ‘Still, it’s a start. And these bodies will remain here as a warning to the remaining Watchers that they are facing no ordinary foes. They will know from here on that we can kill them. They’ll think twice before engaging us in combat again. But there’s still one last task that needs to be done.’

  His features grim, he then proceeds to severe the limbs off every corpse in the room.

  ‘For the love of God, Armand! What are you doing?’ I ask, horrified, and at a complete loss as to any practical necessity for this act of butchery.

  ‘It was hard enough killing these once. And if it can be helped, I don’t want to have to do it again,’ Armand explains, having finished the gruesome task. ‘But if they are raised from the dead by the remaining Watchers, they’ll find it difficult to come after us with no hands and feet.’

  As Armand wipes the gore from his blade, I’m reminded of the grim reality of what it takes to be a skilled witch hunter. Since joining the Hexenjäger, I have seen much blood spilt, and although I have become somewhat desensitised to the sight of death, it still unnerves me. When you are fighting for your life, having to drive your blade into the chest of an opponent who is in league with Satan is one thing. But to desecrate the bodies of the slain, irrespective of the practical need, does not sit well with me. I can certainly understand why Armand performed the grisly task, but I don’t think that I could ever bring myself to perform such an action, regardle
ss of the consequences.

  ‘We’ll have a short rest here – five minutes, no more,’ Blodklutt says. ‘Then we need to keep moving. If, like last time, these walls retract after an hour or so, then we’ll want to be as far away from here as possible. I hate to think what’s going to come through this chamber the next time the walls open.’ He turns to look at Armand and me. ‘You should thank your lucky stars that we had been stalled here, retained by this portcullis. Otherwise, you would have found yourself facing the Watchers with only Francesca’s blade to help you.’

  ‘What?’ I say, noticing only now that progress into the passageway beyond the antechamber has been blocked by a lowered portcullis. I am also surprised by the news that the walls had retracted by themselves. I had believed that Francesca – who had advised Armand and me to seek the safety of the pit – had been directly responsible for our rescue. ‘I thought you had found a release-catch and somehow made the walls move. And what do you mean we’d have faced the Watchers with only Francesca’s blade to help us?’

  ‘We had a slight difference of opinion. I wanted to wait for you whereas the Captain wanted to take the courageous option of pressing on ahead,’ Francesca says, making no effort to mask her contempt for Blodklutt’s desire to leave Armand and me behind. ‘I wish I could say that we had saved you, but there was nothing we could do to help. Most traps of this nature work on a timing mechanism. After an hour or so has passed, the walls are pulled back to their original position by massive counter-weights. I had hoped that this trap – like all the others I have encountered of this design – would reset itself after a set period of time. That’s why I instructed you to seek refuge in the pit.’ She pauses as she turns to indicate the heavy metal portcullis blocking our exit from the antechamber. ‘You are also fortunate that this portcullis must be triggered by the same mechanism that activates the walls, and it came crashing down the very instant we reached the antechamber. And that Blodklutt has a wounded shoulder, preventing him from raising the portcullis. If he would have had his way, we would have gone on without you. He intends to complete this mission at any cost – even if it means losing a few comrades along the way.’

  She gives Blodklutt a disgusted look, as if to suggest that it would be prudent for him not to disturb her for some time, then moves off to the far side of the antechamber to sort through the equipment in her pack.

  Hearing this, I look across at the Captain, but his steel-grey eyes betray no emotion. I know that our first priority is to locate the Tablet of Breaking, making all other considerations – including waiting for trapped and fallen companions – secondary. It is easy for Francesca to criticise Blodklutt but, as the leader of our small company, he is placed in the unenviable position of having to make decisions that must ensure the successful completion of our mission. But the realisation of my own expendability is hard to swallow. I find myself wondering if I would have acted in the same way as Blodklutt, wanting to press on ahead and condemn two trapped companions to their probable deaths.

  Having lost both of my parents at such a young age, I have an acute awareness of the fragility of life, and how it must be valued and protected at all costs. Dietrich had also informed me that my father had been fiercely loyal to the soldiers under his command, often risking his own life to ensure their safety. Just as my father’s adventurous spirit courses through my veins, I believe I have also inherited his sense of loyalty to his comrades-in-arms.

  This would explain why I disobeyed a direct order from Blodklutt and returned to Dietrich’s side. It would also explain why I stopped to help Armand climb out of the pit. These decisions had been easy to make, however, as I knew that, even if I were to die, my remaining companions would be able to press deeper into the subterranean network in search of the Tablet of Breaking. But what would I do if there was nobody else to carry on? Would I remain behind to help my companions? Would my loyalty to my comrades become my Achilles heel, forcing me to make a rash decision that could see the Tablet fall into the hands of the Watchers? It would be a terrible decision to have to make, and I hope I am never placed in a situation in which I am forced to decide between the lives of my companions and the future of our world.

  If there is one consolation, it is that Francesca has made it blatantly clear that she would have stayed behind to wait for Armand and me. She was not prepared to leave us behind, even at the price of forfeiting the mission. I know that I can rely on her, and I find this reassuring.

  My thoughts so occupied, I barely have time to ready my firearms and take a drink from the waterskin strapped to the side of my pack before Blodklutt announces that it is time for us to move. With a deep sigh, for I would have liked to have rested for at least a few minutes more, I follow my companions over to the portcullis. It is only now I realise that the metal gate has been propped open by a dagger, leaving a one-foot gap beneath it, just enough for a person to crawl through to the other side.

  ‘We have a way forward only due to von Konigsmarck’s quick thinking,’ Francesca explains. ‘Being part of the same trap system, the portcullis was raised when the walls started to retract. But the trap was reactivated the second you climbed out of the pit and stepped on the floor, which you must remember is one great pressure-stone. At that instant, the walls started to close in again and the portcullis came flying down. But von Konigsmarck’s reflexes proved faster, and he managed to get a dagger wedged beneath the portcullis.’

  When we have assembled on the other side, von Konigsmarck retrieves his dagger, and the metal barrier comes crashing down like the jaws of some great beast, sealing us within a new, unknown section of the subterranean network. As the sound reverberates off the stone walls, I peer warily into the darkness ahead, wondering what new perils await us and how many more of us will fall behind before we reach our goal.

  We find ourselves in a narrow corridor that stretches for some fifty yards before ending at a closed metal door, in which, at chest height, is set a strange device. It consists of a series of ten, six-inch-long rotating ivory discs, neatly aligned in a row within a metal casing, so that only their narrow sides, covered in strange symbols, are visible. To the right of this device is a raised metal lever, and along the walls of the corridor are holes – hundreds of them, barely an inch wide, stretching from the floor to the ceiling.

  ‘It’s a lock – a combination lock, to be precise,’ Francesca announces once we have assembled before the door. ‘The symbols on the discs must be placed in a correct sequence before the lever can be lowered and the door will open.’

  ‘And what happens if the symbols are placed in the incorrect order?’ Armand asks.

  ‘When the lever is pulled, I fear something will shoot out from the holes lining the walls.’

  ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Armand says, shaking his head.

  ‘The Devil take me!’ von Konigsmarck curses, looking back at the lowered portcullis. ‘I shouldn’t have removed my dagger. I should have at least waited until we had checked this corridor. Now I’ve sealed us in here like caged rats. We’ve no room to fall back.’

  ‘You are not to blame,’ Blodklutt says. ‘You weren’t to know we would find ourselves trapped in here. Besides, it’s not as if any of us tried to stop you. So let’s just focus on working out how to decipher this code.’ He looks directly at Francesca. ‘Can it be done?’

  Francesca raises her eyebrows and exhales heavily. ‘I’m sure it’s possible. All codes can be broken. But the question is whether I can determine the correct sequence before the trap in the previous room resets.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ I ask.

  Francesca shrugs uncertainly. ‘It took an hour to reset last time. I’d assume we’d have the same amount of time now. And when that happens, the walls are going to retract, allowing what I imagine will be an army of undead to come swarming up here. Although the portcullis will rise as the trap resets, it will fall again as soon as
the walls close in. Dozens of the undead may make it through the room, and they will find themselves bottled between the closed walls and the portcullis. The portcullis may have prevented us from moving forward, but I don’t think it will prove to be much of an obstacle for them. It would only be a matter of time before they break through into this passage. I don’t think I need to paint you a picture of what will happen then.’

  ‘So we need to work this out,’ I say with renewed energy, and turn my attention to the lock. ‘What do we need to do?’

  ‘Note that each disc is engraved with a series of symbols,’ Francesca says, pointing at the ivory discs and their strange markings. ‘The discs rotate, allowing a vast number of sequences to be created. We must align the symbols correctly to release the locking mechanism. When the lever is lowered, the door will open.’

  ‘It sounds easy enough,’ I comment.

  Francesca raises a finger. ‘It’s easy if you know the correct sequence. But given the possible number of different arrangements, it could take us days of trial and error before we are successful. All we have is one hour.’

  ‘And we don’t exactly have the luxury of working this out through a process of trial and error, do we?’ Armand says. ‘Didn’t you say that if an incorrect sequence is formed, and the lever is lowered, then something is going to come out of the holes in the walls – something that will more than likely kill us?’

  Francesca nods gravely. ‘That’s correct.’

  Armand’s eyes narrow. ‘So there’s no margin for error.’

  Francesca looks into each of our eyes in turn, reminding us of the gravity of our situation. ‘None at all. We get one chance at this.’

  There’s a moment of silence as we ponder the consequences of entering the incorrect combination. The chance of us deciphering a series of ancient symbols – in less than an hour – seems an impossible task.