The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  ‘How do we destroy it?’ the Frenchman finally asks.

  The Captain shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. It might be as simple as smashing the artefact. Although it’s light, it is made of some type of metal – the likes of which I have never seen before – and it feels strong. Apparently no one has ever been able to decipher these strange symbols that are engraved on the Tablet’s surface. Perhaps they are a set of instructions as to how to destroy it.’

  ‘Some theologians believe they are the language of God,’ I say, recalling the comment made by Lothar Liebknecht back in Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel’s office.

  ‘The language of God! Really?’ Armand says, his eyes narrowing with intrigue as he studies the symbols.

  I go over to join the others when I see something that makes me fumble for my Pappenheimer. For down the corridor, just at the very edge of our lantern-light, a figure is standing in the darkness, staring at us.

  ‘There’s somebody there!’ I cry. In less than a heartbeat my companions leap to their feet, their weapons drawn for combat.

  ‘Where?’ Blodklutt demands, his eyes following my line of sight down the corridor, but unable to see the figure.

  ‘There!’ I point with my rapier into the darkness, only to find that the stranger has disappeared.

  Crouching warily, Armand takes a few steps down the corridor. ‘I can’t see anything, Jakob,’ he whispers back, shaking his head. ‘You and Francesca checked that section of corridor not too long ago. Are you certain you saw somebody?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, peering into the darkness where I had spotted the stranger. ‘There was somebody standing there, watching us. Only now I can’t see them.’

  Armand takes a few more steps forward and stares for several seconds into the darkness. At length, he relaxes his guard, looks back at Blodklutt and shakes his head.

  ‘We are all tired – pushed to the limits of our endurance,’ Blodklutt says, lowering his blade. ‘Under these circumstances, it’s not uncommon for our minds to play tricks on us. We start to see things that aren’t there.’

  ‘But I didn’t imagine it,’ I say adamantly. ‘There was somebody standing at the edge of the light. And they were watching us.’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ Armand says, gesturing for Blodklutt to hand him his lantern. Attaching it to his belt, Armand repositions his cloak free from his shoulders so that it won’t get caught on his swords, grips his blades for combat, and moves warily down the corridor.

  Armand has barely moved further than twenty yards before he stops dead in his tracks. For at the very perimeter of light cast by his lantern, a figure emerges – its eyes rolled back in death, water dribbling from its mouth, and its drawn rapier gripped in a cadaver-white hand.

  Our blood turns to ice.

  We stare at von Konigsmarck. He has been raised from the dead, transformed into one of the Watchers’ minions.

  ‘Stay back!’ Armand warns us. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

  The next instant dozens of figures stir in the darkness behind von Konigsmarck.

  ‘This isn’t good,’ Francesca says, readying her crossbow and clipping in a magazine of bolts. ‘Some of the undead have survived and climbed into the Ark.’

  ‘And at least one of the Watchers must still be alive,’ Blodklutt adds, rolling his sword-arm painfully in preparation for combat. ‘How else could von Konigsmarck have been raised from the dead?’

  As if in answer to the Captain’s question, the undead emerge from the darkness – some with terrible injuries sustained from when they had been hit by the wall of water and smashed into the side of the Hall of Records. And leading them are the two remaining Watchers, their robes drenched and shredded, their blades readied for combat and their eyes blazing with rage.

  ‘Armand – pull back!’ Captain Blodklutt orders, and the French duellist shuffles back to join us, his eyes never leaving the undead.

  ‘What do we do?’ I fear that we have run out of places to hide, and that this will be a pitched battle to the death.

  Blodklutt grabs Francesca by the sleeve and pulls her over to stand by my side. ‘Whatever happens, we cannot let them take the Tablet of Breaking. It must be destroyed before we fall.’ He then hands me the relic. ‘You must work out how to destroy it.’

  ‘Us? But how?’ I ask, holding the Tablet uncertainly before me, clueless as to how to destroy it.

  ‘You are the least skilled fighters amongst us,’ Blodklutt says matter-of-factly. ‘Armand and I are going to have to face the undead, but there is no guarantee that we will prevail. Should we fall, the Watchers will come straight for you, so you must destroy the relic before that happens.’ He stares at Francesca and me in turn, willing us to have the resolve to complete the charge with which we have been entrusted. ‘I know you can do this. Now get started. Every second we waste may be crucial.’

  Armand steps forward to place a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’ve been through a lot since we met. And if there’s one person I can say I have complete faith in, it is you, young Jakob. And you’re not too bad, either,’ he says, winking at Francesca. He produces the pistol from his belt and hands it to me. ‘You may need this. I’m sure your pistol and powder got wet when you were swamped by the wave as you were climbing the scaffold. But mine’s loaded and ready to fire. With any luck, none of the undead will get close enough for you to have to use it. Just don’t take too long working out how to destroy the relic.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I say, and tuck the pistol under my belt. ‘Godspeed, Armand.’

  ‘Godspeed,’ Armand replies, following Captain Blodklutt down the corridor to begin battle with the undead.

  Swallowing nervously, I look across at Francesca. Her eyes are narrowed in determination. Wasting no time, I place the Tablet on the ground and stamp on it with the heel of my boot, hoping to crush it. When this is ineffective, Francesca advises me to hammer the pommel of my Pappenheimer against it in order to shatter the relic. But even the heavy ovoid pommel doesn’t leave so much as a scratch on the Tablet, and I look up at Francesca in desperation.

  ‘How are we ever going to destroy it?’ I ask.

  As if in answer to my question, Francesca picks up the Tablet and throws it with all of her might at the wooden decking. Just like my previous efforts, however, this is to no avail.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, shaking her head as she retrieves the relic. ‘But we had better find some way – and fast!’

  Turning around, I find that Armand and Blodklutt have taken position some twenty yards down the corridor. The honed edges of their drawn blades are glistening like jewels in the wan light cast by the lantern hanging from Armand’s belt.

  Blodklutt leads the attack, darting forward, his rapier slicing through the torso of one of the undead, leaving it writhing on the ground in its violent death throes. With a sudden flick of his wrist, the Captain redirects his blade to snake out at the next zombie, which chokes on the three hand-spans of steel that has punctured through its neck. Extracting his blade, Blodklutt savagely kicks the chest of another zombie, then staggers back from the fray, grimacing in pain against his wounded shoulder. He curses against his incapacitation as he sheathes his blade and produces the Malleus Maleficarum from its calfskin case, allowing Armand to engage the undead.

  His moves perfectly synchronised, Armand weaves forward in a whirlwind of death, his dual sabres slicing through the horde with the ease of a razor slicing through silk. But then he meets von Konigsmarck, who leaps into the air and brings his blade swinging over Armand’s head in a savage attack.

  Narrowly sidestepping the hit, Armand weaves to his left and lashes out with a sabre at von Konigsmarck’s torso, forcing him to recoil and lose the initiative. Armand assumes a wide-legged traversing stance: one of his blades held high in an outstretched hand, forming a perfect line with
his shoulder, and the other sabre held low, cocked back, ready to strike. In a defiant gesture, he grins mockingly at the former Lieutenant of the Milites Christi, hoping to rouse his anger and force him to make a hasty attack.

  And this is exactly what von Konigsmarck does. Taking the bait, he pounces forward, his rapier flashing in a series of lightning-fast thrusts directed at Armand’s face and upper torso. But Armand is faster, and he gives ground easily, his sabres parrying aside von Konigsmarck’s blade. Then, when von Konigsmarck over-extends one of his attacks, Armand catches him off-guard by stepping forward. Using one of his sabres to deftly deflect von Konigsmarck’s blade, he springs forward to hammer the cross-guard of his second sabre into his former companion’s face. Von Konigsmarck recoils in pain, and before he has had a chance to ready his defences, Armand lashes out with his other sabre, directing it to slash across his opponent’s neck, to cleave through flesh and bone.

  At this moment, one of the Watchers rushes forward, its heavy sword humming through the air, aimed at Armand’s head. Armand evidently catches the Watcher as a blur of movement in the corner of his eye and ducks – avoiding the blade by a hair’s-breadth. His initiative lost, the French duellist then abandons his attack, dances out of harm’s reach, and swaps one of his sabres for his Dagger of Gabriel. He assumes a defensive stance, stretching out his left hand to hold his sabre high, its point locked on the Watcher’s face, keeping the fallen angel at bay, whilst his right hand is drawn back, poised to strike with the dagger. The duellist waits for the Watcher to make the next move. And he doesn’t have to wait long.

  But the Watcher does not attack with its blade. Instead, it reaches out a scarred hand towards Armand’s neck and brings its fingers together as if squeezing the air.

  ‘You will die this time, witch hunter,’ it says mockingly, and only now do Armand and I realise that this is the Watcher we encountered in the crypt at Meteora.

  Although the Watcher’s hand is a good three yards away from Armand, the Frenchman starts to gag and choke, as if his windpipe is being crushed. Lowering his blades, he staggers back from the Watcher, his face turning red as he tries in vain to suck in air through his constricted throat. It’s at this point that von Konigsmarck, his face a bloodied mess, rushes forward, his rapier poised to thrust into Armand’s chest.

  Giving a cry of alarm, my efforts to destroy the Tablet of Breaking momentarily forgotten and noticing that Blodklutt – his head buried deep in the pages of the Malleus Maleficarum – cannot go to Armand’s aid, I snatch the loaded pistol from my belt. Before I can even thumb back the firing pin, I notice, in the corner of my eye, that Francesca has been quicker to react. She whips up her crossbow, takes aim, and unloads a full magazine of bolts into the unsuspecting undead. Having retreated to the side of the corridor, Armand is fortunate to have avoided the whizzing storm of death and looks up in surprise to take in the aftermath of Francesca’s attack.

  Several undead lie dead on the ground. Von Konigsmarck has pulled up suddenly, his thrust abandoned as he stares in morbid curiosity at the two bolts lodged in his upper torso. The Watcher, standing a yard off to von Konigsmarck’s right, is riddled with bolts, one of which has punctured straight though its neck. Stepping back in rage – its spell broken as it is forced to extract the bolt from its neck – it turns to stare at Francesca, its eyes blazing.

  The Watcher and von Konigsmarck are distracted for only a second or two, but that is all the time it takes for Armand to seize the initiative. Weakened by the blessed bolts lodged deep in his chest, von Konigsmarck doesn’t even have time to raise his rapier in defence before Armand is upon him. Pushing off with his left leg, Armand lunges forward, his sabre punching a good foot through his former companion’s chest.

  Although having been delivered a mortal blow, von Konigsmarck, somehow sustained by the Watcher’s magic, stares at the yard of steel lodged in his chest. But then his eyes lock on Armand’s and a sinister leer crosses his lips. Dropping his rapier, von Konigsmarck reaches out with one hand and grabs hold of Armand’s shoulder with a vice-like grip to prevent him from escaping. His remaining hand then produces one of the pistols tucked under his belt. Thumbing back the firing pin, he shoves the barrel under Armand’s chin and squeezes the trigger.

  But the firearm – its powder having been exposed to water when von Konigsmarck had fallen from the inverted staircase and been swept away – does not discharge. Armand, having copied von Konigsmarck’s attack, gestures with his eyes towards the dagger he has positioned under his opponent’s chin.

  ‘Sleep peacefully, friend,’ Armand says, then drives his blade upward.

  Extracting his blades, Armand pushes aside von Konigsmarck’s twitching corpse and turns to face the Watcher, which by now has extracted the last of Francesca’s bolts from its body. Moving fast so as to not lose his advantage, Armand darts across to the Watcher. He draws aside the fallen angel’s blade with a diversionary thrust of his dagger, then suddenly whips up his sabre and delivers a blow that slices deep across the Watcher’s eyes. Its head recoils from the impact and the Watcher screams out in rage. But before it can mount a counter-attack, Armand shoots forward, draws in close, and plunges his dagger – several times – deep into the Watcher’s chest. Holding the dagger drenched in gore, Armand steps back at the same moment the Watcher slumps to its knees and stares in disbelief at the mortal puncture wounds on its chest. Having spared a second to savour the victory, Armand kicks the Watcher away, leaving it to die on the floor, and turns his attention back to the remaining undead.

  His lips set in a vicious snarl, Armand launches himself into them and carves a trail of death through the unholy horde. Within a matter of seconds, a further twelve undead litter the floor. Believing that Armand and Blodklutt have the situation back under control, Francesca and I return our attention to the Tablet.

  ‘Perhaps our weapons cannot break the Tablet because they were fashioned by the hands of men,’ Francesca says, her eyes wide with sudden hope. ‘But the Tablet was created in Heaven’s forges by the Archangel Gabriel. Rather than try to break it with our weapons, perhaps we need to use a weapon created in Heaven.’

  ‘Like one of the Daggers of Gabriel!’ I exclaim, reading her thoughts.

  Francesca places the Tablet on the ground and I draw the dagger tucked into my belt. With my heart racing, I kiss the blade in holy reverence, hold it above my head in a two-handed grip, and prepare to drive it into the relic.

  But before I do I catch movement in the corner of my eye and turn to the left – across to the opening in the deck in which the descending ladder is set, not even a yard away from us.

  One of the undead is climbing up the ladder, emerging from the darkness.

  My heart freezing in fright, I snatch the Tablet, grab Francesca, and scramble back from the opening. But we haven’t even moved back two yards before the zombie sets its death-white eyes upon us. It rushes up the remaining rungs of the ladder, its slavering maw opened, ready to rip us to shreds.

  Whereas I freeze with fear, Francesca whips out her talwar – the heavy, double-edged Indian blade – steps forward, and cleaves the zombie’s head clear from its shoulders. As the decapitated corpse topples back down into the darkness, a terrible roar erupts from below, as if the pits of Hell have been opened.

  ‘There must be dozens down there!’ Francesca’s eyes widen. She grabs me by the collar and pulls me over to the ascending ladder. ‘And you need to move. Get the Tablet of Breaking away from here. Find somewhere safe, somewhere you can hide, then work out how to destroy it.’

  ‘But what about you?’ I say, hesitating on the ladder. ‘I’m not leaving you here. And what of Armand and Captain Blodklutt?’

  ‘You have no choice,’ Francesca says. ‘Someone has to stay here to stop the undead from coming up the ladder. If they gain this level, Armand and the Captain will be surrounded. They won’t stand a chance. And you can
’t stay here, for if the undead slay you then the Tablet will fall into the hands of the Watchers.’

  ‘Let me be the one to stay,’ I say adamantly, fearing that she will die if she is to remain behind. ‘I’ll defend the ladder so you can escape with the relic.’

  Francesca shakes her head resolutely and hands me her lantern. ‘This isn’t open for discussion. Now go. The undead are coming.’

  Before I have a chance to respond, Francesca races over to the opening in the floor, her blade raised to meet the first of the undead to emerge from the darkness.

  This is the moment I have been dreading – when I would be forced to make a decision that would see me either help my friends, or abandon them in order to complete the mission. Torn in two, I make up my mind. I know the Tablet cannot fall into the hands of the undead, so I turn my back on Francesca, secure the lantern to my belt, and climb up the ladder to the next level.

  Unlike the previous levels, there are dozens of doors spanning off this corridor, leading into what I soon discover are small rooms. The remnants of hessian bags and grain on their inverted ceilings suggest that they had been used as storerooms for food and supplies.

  I sprint along the corridor, passing smaller corridors that branch off to the left and right. The sounds of combat rising from the deck below gradually dissipate into a distant, muffled echo, until all that remains is my laboured breath and footfalls. Eventually deciding that I should be safe, I open one of the storeroom doors, close it behind me, and bar it shut it with a length of wood that I find on the floor and can only assume had once served as a mop or rake handle. Hiding amongst the strewn mess of empty wooden barrels that litter the room, I place the Tablet of Breaking on the ground and ready my Dagger of Gabriel. I hold the blade high above my head, then pause for a second, overwhelmed by the enormity of the task to which I have been entrusted. But then my thoughts race back to my companions, fighting for their lives, buying me the time I need, and with my heart racing in expectant victory, I drive the blade – hard – into the relic.