The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  Only to find that the dagger skids off the Tablet, leaving so much as not even a mark on its metal surface.

  Staring in disbelief at the Tablet, I cry out in frustration. I clasp my trembling hands together, and call out to God in a desperate act of supplication.

  Then I hear a noise that makes me freeze and fall silent, too afraid to even breathe lest the sound betray my location. From somewhere down the opposite end of the corridor, I can hear the distinct sound of someone kicking in the storeroom doors.

  No doubt searching for me and the Tablet.

  Terrified, I retreat into a corner of the room and hide behind some barrels. Conscious that my lantern-light may spill through the gap beneath the door and be visible to anyone – or anything – coming down the corridor, I grab a nearby cloth bag. I place this over the lantern, transforming its light into a barely visible orange glow. It will only be a matter of time before whoever is kicking in the doors reaches the storeroom in which I am hiding, so I crouch lower behind the barrels, place the Tablet of Breaking on the floor and stare it at in the near total darkness, trying to work out how to get rid of it.

  I begin to wonder if I have gone about this the wrong way. Perhaps the Tablet cannot be destroyed through the use of force. Perhaps it needs to be thrown into an intense fire, like a blacksmith’s forge, and melted. Or perhaps, being a magical device, a chant or mantra may need to be uttered to bring about its destruction.

  Preoccupied with these thoughts, I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear the person in the corridor coming closer and closer as they kick in the doors. Knowing that it will only be a matter of seconds before they reach my room, I return the Dagger of Gabriel to my belt and produce my pistol with a trembling hand.

  My heart racing, I pray that the length of wood braced against the door will prevent it from being opened. I look down at the Tablet, and tears, born of frustration and despair, well in my eyes. There is too much good in the world for it to be destroyed. Evil exists in the hearts of some men, but this evil does not outweigh the good in the rest of humanity. We have not fallen into such moral depravity and sin as to warrant the destruction of the entire human race. I still have much to learn about the world, but I believe that the majority of people are honest and peaceful. They want nothing more in life than to live harmoniously with their families and friends, free from the horrors of war.

  When I was ten I witnessed something that had the most profound effect on me. A boy had fallen into a swollen river on the outskirts of Dresden, and a small crowd of onlookers had gathered along its banks. A rope had been thrown across to the child, but he was too fatigued to pull himself out. Then a man stepped forward, took hold of the rope, and fought his way across the raging torrent to reach the boy and secure the rope around his chest. The child was pulled free from the river, but the man, exhausted from the swim, drowned. When the man’s body was recovered several miles downstream, it was discovered that he was a stranger who happened to be passing through the area.

  As long as we live in a world in which there are people who are prepared to risk their lives to protect the young, weak and elderly, then it is a world worth fighting for. And it is with this thought that one of my tears drips onto the Tablet. The second this happens, the symbols on the artefact flash a brilliant gold, lighting up the entire room. Within a heartbeat, the light vanishes.

  And the Tablet of Breaking disintegrates into a pile of ash!

  I stare in utter amazement at where the relic had once been, overwhelmed by a great sense of victory, safe in the knowledge that the Tablet of Breaking has been destroyed and that the world has been saved from Armageddon.

  This elation is short-lived, however, for the next instant the door gets kicked in. Whipping the cloth bag off the lantern to flood the room in light, I leap to my feet, my pistol aimed at the figure standing in the doorway. Only to discover that it is Friedrich Geist.

  Knowing that I will not survive this encounter with one of Europe’s foremost soldiers, I cross myself, then reach down with a shaking hand to collect my lantern and attach it to my belt. I draw my Pappenheimer from its scabbard and prepare to face Friedrich.

  Bleeding from over a dozen wounds, one of which is a gaping cut to the side of the head that almost makes my stomach turn, the former leader of the Milites Christi is an abomination – a nightmare straight from Hell. His face is a mask of pure evil, horribly contorted by the unholy life bestowed by the Watchers. And having set his dead eyes on me, he wastes no time in crossing the room, kicking aside the barrels that are in his path, his blade drawn back to butcher me.

  ‘You cannot win,’ I say defiantly, at least wanting Friedrich to know that, even if I fall, the Watchers have failed. ‘I have destroyed the Tablet of Breaking.’

  If my comment was intended to startle Friedrich and to make him hesitate, then it misses its objective. For, as one of the living dead, he is merely an unholy pawn, incapable of thought or reason, his every action controlled by the Watcher that raised him from the dead. And so his response comes in the form of his sweeping blade as it smashes through the remaining barrels in the room, showering me in shards of wood. Then he’s upon me.

  In the confined space of the storeroom, its floor littered in debris, there isn’t much room to manoeuvre, and Friedrich’s first thrust almost skewers me. Twisting at the last moment, I somehow manage to avoid his blade, which lodges itself in the wall behind me. As Friedrich braces a foot against the wall and attempts to work his blade free, I race for the doorway, determined to escape from the storeroom and to make my way back to my companions.

  But I am barely halfway across the room when my blood runs cold and I come to an abrupt halt . . .

  And stare into the death-glazed eyes of Dietrich Hommel, who has just entered the doorway, blocking my sole means of escape.

  Crying out against the cruel irony that my father’s closest friend has now come to slay me, I instinctively whip up my pistol and take aim at Dietrich.

  ‘For the love of God, Dietrich, don’t make me do this!’ I say, aware that killing him will haunt me for the rest of my life.

  I know that the Dietrich I knew is already dead, and the abomination standing before me is merely a shell, infused with evil. I also know that Dietrich will never know the rest of eternal sleep until he is killed and released from the control of the Watchers.

  Tortured by this horrific predicament, and yet realising what must be done, I say a hasty prayer and start squeezing the trigger of my pistol . . . only to abandon my shot at the last moment. Hearing the swish of a blade coming at me from behind, I’m forced to duck, and narrowly avoid a savage swipe from Friedrich’s mortuary blade.

  I lash out wildly with my rapier and leap across to the side of the room. Although a reflex action intended to keep Friedrich at bay whilst I reposition myself, I’m surprised when I feel the edge of my blade slice through flesh. I look around to find that I have slashed Friedrich right across the face.

  A veil of crimson descending across his lips and chin, Friedrich gives a blood-choked roar and tears after me, his sword aimed directly at my head. But again, I manage to avoid the attack, darting deftly to my left, and I lash out with my blade, hoping to catch Friedrich off-guard.

  But this time he anticipates my move, and he reaches out to grab hold of my rapier. His iron-like fingers locked around my blade, he then gives a tremendous yank, making me lose my footing and pulling me directly towards him. Before I have time to raise my pistol, I find myself trapped in a bear hug, my arms pinned to my sides, forcing me to stare into the bloody mess of his face.

  As he starts to squeeze the life out of me, I hear the sound of heavy footfalls coming from behind. I turn my head just in time to see Dietrich lumber forward, his blade drawn back in preparation to skewer me through the back. Trying desperately to break free from Friedrich’s grasp, I drive my knee hard into Friedrich’s crotch. A
lthough this only distracts him for a split second, it allows me to twist my body to the right – just at the same instant that Dietrich lunges forward with his blade.

  I cry out in pain as the point of Dietrich’s rapier punctures through my side. But it is Friedrich who arches violently, and I look down to find that – whilst Dietrich’s blade has just caught me, travelling through an inch of flesh just below my ribcage – it has driven straight through Friedrich’s chest, impaling him. As Friedrich releases his grip and Dietrich extracts his blade to deliver another attack, I raise my pistol, take aim over my left shoulder and fire at point-blank range at Dietrich, blasting him off his feet with a direct shot to the heart.

  When the smoke from my pistol clears I find that Dietrich is lying dead on the floor, but Friedrich is still alive, and I’m forced to jump back from a thrust aimed at my chest. Tossing aside my now useless pistol, I clutch my wounded side and assume a wide-legged defensive stance, my blade held high, its point directed at Friedrich’s face in an attempt to keep him at bay whilst I make my exit from the storeroom.

  Reaching the doorway, I step back into the corridor, my eyes locked onto the terribly wounded Friedrich, who lurches after me. But rather than push his attack, he stays back, just beyond the reach of my rapier, crouched like a wolf stalking its wounded prey as it waits for its pack to assist in the final kill.

  I turn my eyes from Friedrich to inspect the corridor, my heart racing, expecting to find dozens of undead lurking in the darkness beyond my lantern-light. But I give a sigh of relief when I find that the corridor is deserted – a stage of death reserved for just Friedrich and me. I turn my attention back to the former leader of the Milites Christi as I make my way down the corridor, hoping to return to my companions.

  It’s when I am halfway down the passage, and the distinct sound of combat reverberates from the deck below, that Friedrich attacks. Streaking forward, he almost catches me off-guard, and I just manage to parry aside his series of deadly thrusts. Focusing exclusively on defence, I retreat down the corridor until I eventually reach the opening in the floor in which the ladder is set. And it’s here that I change my tactic, knowing that I must force Friedrich back a few yards, granting me the time I will need to climb down to the deck below.

  Wincing against the pain in my side, I push off with my left foot and leap forward to attack Friedrich with a sequence of thrusts, concluded with a wild swipe at his head, which forces him to recoil and stagger back several feet. Then, seizing the advantage, I race for the ladder. I have barely had time to position myself on the edge of the opening in the floor before Friedrich dives at me. He slams into me, knocking me senseless; his momentum forcing us to topple through the hole.

  It is almost as if time freezes as we fall through the air. I catch sight of Francesca, still defending the descending ladder, and some twenty yards down the corridor Armand and Captain Blodklutt are facing the last of the undead and the final Watcher. I’m also vaguely aware of someone, possibly Armand, calling out my name, and then Friedrich and I crash – with bone-breaking force – onto the deck. The wind explodes from my chest, and I lay there for some time, sucking in air, my vision blurred.

  My vision gradually clears, only to find – in the light cast by the lantern still attached to my belt, which miraculously did not shatter in the fall – that I am lying on top of Friedrich, my head resting on his chest. I collect my Pappenheimer, clutch my wounded side, and stagger to my feet. Fearing that Friedrich is still alive, I place the point of my rapier above his chest, ready to drive it into his heart. I stand there for several seconds, staring into his lifeless eyes. But he does not stir. It appears as if not even the Watcher’s curse of unholy life could protect one of their animated dead from such a fall. Breathing a sigh of relief, I lower my blade.

  ‘Jakob – you’re alive!’ Armand cries out ecstatically, momentarily disengaging from the undead and looking back at me.

  ‘I’m just lucky I landed on top of Friedrich,’ I call back. ‘He took the full impact.’

  ‘Well, hopefully that’s the last we’ll see of him,’ Armand says, glancing back at Friedrich’s corpse. ‘And what of the Tablet?’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that any more. I’ve destroyed it.’

  ‘You did it! Well done,’ Francesca calls over her shoulder, pausing to reload her crossbow. ‘I knew you could.’

  ‘Indeed, well done, young Jakob. I never once doubted you,’ Armand adds, a triumphant smile upon his lips as he streaks forward to engage the undead once more. ‘Now all that remains is for us to fight our way out of here. But it isn’t going to be an easy task.’

  He is forced to dodge to the left as the remaining Watcher pushes through the undead and tries to cut down the Frenchman with an overhead strike. As the fallen angel’s blade thuds into the deck, Armand pivots and forces the Watcher to withdraw with a savage kick to the chest.

  ‘I think this remaining Watcher is their leader, Shemyaza, the angel that led the rebellion in Heaven,’ Armand calls over his shoulder. ‘He’s nearly taken my head off a couple of times. He’s not going to go down without a fight.’

  As if to add emphasis to the Frenchman’s words, Blodklutt, reading from the opened pages of the Malleus Maleficarum, raises a hand and points his outstretched fingers at the Watcher. The next instant, a bolt of blue lightning shoots from his fingertips, hitting one of the undead in its path, lifting the zombie and slamming it against the wall. The zombie falls into a smouldering, lifeless heap on the floor. But the bolt of lightning, carrying onto its original target, is intercepted by the Watcher’s heavy sword. The veins of rippling energy caught on its blade, the Watcher then flicks its sword in Armand’s direction, forcing the French duellist to duck as the lightning shoots past him.

  Believing we have come too far to be defeated, I’m about to stagger over to help Francesca when I am compelled to take the mortuary sword still gripped in Friedrich’s lifeless fingers. Armand had told me that the blade is famous, having been wielded by Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector of England, during the siege of Drogheda. Armand is a connoisseur of rare and quality blades, the walls of his private quarters in Burg Grimmheim displaying his collection of well over two dozen swords, and I know that Friedrich’s blade will be a welcome addition. Reaching down, I pry Friedrich’s fingers from the hilt and tuck the blade into my belt.

  And it’s then that my heart practically hurdles a rib. For Friedrich looks up at me.

  Terrified, I leap back – but not before Friedrich reaches out, snatches my lantern, and hurls it at the nearby wall. It smashes upon impact, and the wooden wall, now saturated in oil, bursts into flames.

  I am amazed at how quickly the fire spreads. In less than a few heartbeats it has climbed twenty feet to reach the ceiling of the corridor.

  ‘The Ark is on fire!’ I cry out, drawing my companions’ attention to the burning section of wall.

  ‘What?’ Francesca blurts, turning around to assess the situation. Then, knowing that we can no longer hold this section of the corridor, she gives one last swipe at the undead climbing the ladder, buying her the time she needs to race over to join me by the ascending ladder. ‘Armand! Blodklutt! We need to move out of this area,’ she calls out. ‘This wood is ancient and dry. It will go up in no time at all. Our only chance is to climb to the highest level of the Ark and pray that the fire doesn’t reach us. So move – before it’s too late.’

  Heeding her call, Armand and Blodklutt abandon their position and sprint for the ascending ladder. Having used my remaining firearm, I watch Francesca cover their retreat with her repeating crossbow. She takes out the remaining undead coming down the corridor, and forces the Watcher – several bolts lodged in its chest – to retreat into the darkness beyond the light of our lanterns and the flames. But just as the Hexenjäger reach the ladder Friedrich Geist lurches to his feet, draws a stiletto from his belt, and lunges at Arm
and.

  Weaving beneath the blade, Armand responds with a lightning-fast slash with one of his sabres. Caught off-guard by the speed of the attack, Friedrich staggers back, his belly sliced open by the Frenchman’s sword. Determined to end this fight quickly, Armand delivers a savage kick to Friedrich’s chest, sending him into the section of the corridor that is now ablaze.

  Hoping that this is the last we will see of Friedrich Geist, Francesca, Blodklutt and I climb the ladder to the upper level. But halfway up, our eyes lock on the figure that has just climbed up from the deck below.

  I give a cry of alarm, alerting Armand – who had just sheathed his sabres and is about to follow us – to the new danger. Stepping away from the ladder, the Frenchman draws his blades in preparation to face Diego Alvarez.

  Although raised from the dead, Diego has not lost his knowledge of swordplay, and he proves to be the most challenging of opponents, thrusting and riposting his way forward, his rapier transformed into a humming streak of silver. Armand retreats down the corridor, focusing on defence, his sabres swatting aside his opponent’s blade. Then, sparing a concerned glance at the fire and realising that it won’t be long before it consumes the corridor leading to the ascending ladder, he takes the offensive, pressing forward with a series of thrusts aimed at Diego’s head and torso. Armand works his way past the fire and positions himself near the ladder, where he feigns to thrust at Diego’s left leg, forcing the Spaniard to block the anticipated attack. As Diego’s rapier moves down to counter Armand’s blade, the Frenchman pulls up his sword and, with a flick of his wrist, ensnares the rapier between his sabre’s extending cross-guard and its blade. Before Diego has time to pull his sword free, Armand capitalises on the advantage, lashing out with his second sabre, cleaving off Diego’s sword arm. Even before the severed limb – still holding the rapier – hits the ground, Armand whips back his first blade and drives it deep into Diego’s chest. For a second their eyes lock, and the last thing Armand sees in the Spaniard’s eyes is a burning hatred for him – a hatred that has endured even beyond death.