The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  Its lips set in a sadistic sneer, the Watcher jerks its hand violently to the left and right – driving Armand, shackled by invisible chains of dark magic, back and forth into the corridor walls. Armand slams into the wooden panels with bone-breaking force, and it’s not long before the blades drop from his hands and his body goes limp; the life seemingly smashed from him.

  Having raced forward to the ladder, Blodklutt pauses as he raises his right hand, his fingertips outstretched to cast a spell from the Malleus Maleficarum. Fearing that he will not save Armand in time, I drop my rapier and snatch the pistol from my belt. Hoping to put a ball of lead between the Watcher’s eyes, distracting it long enough to break its spell, I raise my pistol and take aim. But then I catch myself, remembering that my weapon is useless, its gunpowder wet. Cursing, I toss the pistol aside and, before I am aware of what I am doing, I find myself throwing my Dagger of Gabriel at the Watcher.

  It is a desperate act – a last-ditch effort to save Armand. I’ve seen too many of my companions die during this mission, and I’m determined that Armand, my closest friend and mentor, will not join them.

  As if in slow motion, I watch my dagger whirl past both Blodklutt and Armand . . . to thud hilt-deep into the Watcher’s throat!

  The next instant, as I blink back against the impossibility of my throw, a bolt of rippling blue lightning shoots from Blodklutt’s outstretched fingertips, hitting Shemyaza square in the chest. Blasted off its feet, the Watcher is thrown back to land hard on its back in the section of the corridor that is engulfed in fire. Writhing in agony, it fumbles at the hilt of the dagger lodged in its throat. And then it is consumed by the inferno.

  It gives me no satisfaction in watching the fallen angel die, but I refuse to draw my eyes away from the horrific scene. The Watchers have been relentless in their pursuit, having chased us all the way from Meteora, and I very much doubt I will ever be able to sleep peacefully again until I can be certain that the last of them has been killed. And so I force myself to watch until Shemyaza is incinerated. Having collected my rapier and my companions’ weapons, Blodklutt and I use the ladder, still untouched by the fire, to return to the hull. We carry Armand and Francesca out of the Ark.

  The Ark has surfaced in the southern part of the Dead Sea, some three hundred yards from the shore. It is evening, the sun sinking in the desert dunes to the west.

  Having laid Armand and Francesca on the exterior wooden beams of the Ark, Blodklutt brings them back to consciousness with the use of a pungent salve he produces from a flask strapped to his belt. With the fire now bursting through the hull in several locations, and the entire vessel groaning as if in its death throes, we waste no time in sliding into the water and swimming across to the shore.

  The swim takes some time to complete, the pain of our wounds amplified by the heavy concentration of salt in the Dead Sea. We stagger out of the water to collapse onto the southern bank. Blodklutt collects some dry brush and starts a fire with his tinder and flint, and we gather around this, warming our hands and drying our clothes. It’s also now that we tend to our wounds, dousing them with fresh water from our leather skins to alleviate the stinging.

  I had feared that Armand and Francesca may have sustained severe head injuries or broken ribs during the final encounter with the Watcher. They are fortunate, however, to be suffering from nothing more than mild concussions.

  ‘Given all that we have been through, it is nothing short of a miracle that we didn’t sustain more serious injuries,’ Blodklutt remarks, rolling his shoulder gingerly, the wound aggravated by the swim back to shore.

  Glad just to be alive, we nod in silent agreement and lay down beside the fire. Feeling its warmth seep into our bruised and aching bodies, we gaze at the rich red and orange hues of the evening sky – a serene conclusion to what has been the most horrific day of my life.

  ‘So was this worth saving?’ Armand asks.

  ‘Without a doubt,’ I say, looking across the Dead Sea and the desert sands. ‘I can’t believe that this is finally over. We did it.’

  ‘Only because you managed to destroy the Tablet of Breaking,’ Armand commends, reaching over to tousle my hair. ‘You’ve become somewhat of a lucky charm for the Hexenjäger, young Jakob von Drachenfels. During your first mission you killed Countess Gretchen Kraus. No easy feat, considering you shot her with your carbine while you were being strangled by von Frankenthal. It was an amazing shot. I very much doubt that the Hexenjäger’s best marksman, Robert Monro, would be able to reproduce that with his rifle. And now you have destroyed the Tablet of Breaking. You had better slow down, or it won’t be long before Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel appoints you to the position of Lieutenant. Which reminds me – how exactly did you get rid of the relic? I don’t recall you telling us.’

  ‘I tried every possible way I could think of,’ I say. ‘But not even one of the Daggers of Gabriel could put so much as a scratch on its surface. Then, when I thought all hope was lost and that the Tablet was going to fall into the hands of the enemy, I . . . cried on it.’ I pause, embarrassed, wishing that there was some way I could embellish the truth and make it sound more dramatic. ‘It was one of my tears that destroyed the Tablet.’

  All three of my companions sit up straight and look at me incredulously.

  ‘One of your tears did what?’ Armand asks, almost as if he didn’t hear me correctly.

  I cannot help but smirk in response to the looks on their faces. ‘You heard me – I cried on it. One of my tears reduced it to ash. At the moment it happened, I was thinking about how terrible and undeserving it would be for all life to end. There is too much good in the world for it to be destroyed. And I’m sure that had something to do with the destruction of the relic.’

  Given all that we have been through, and that the Tablet of Breaking – a device created to bring about Armageddon – could be turned to ash by a simple tear, all four of us cannot help but laugh. It starts as a slight ironic chuckle, initiated by Armand, then gathers in momentum as we all join in. But it is also a laugh born of our relief to have survived the mission – that we somehow managed to achieve the impossible, and have lived to tell the tale.

  ‘You must shed potent tears,’ Armand says at length, having regained his composure.

  ‘I’ve just been lucky,’ I say.

  Armand shakes his head, his expression suddenly serious. ‘Luck has got nothing to do with it, Jakob. Not with you. I’ve always believed that God watches over you. What transpired today has certainly reinforced that belief.’

  ‘Luck or not, I managed to get you this,’ I say, and pull Friedrich Geist’s mortuary blade out from under my belt. I hand the Frenchman the sword. ‘I remember you admiring this the first day we saw Friedrich. I thought you might like it.’

  ‘You thought correctly,’ Armand says, his eyes dancing with excitement. He draws the sword and tests its weight. ‘It is magnificent, and will hold a place of honour in my collection. It might even replace one of my sabres. Thank you, Jakob.’

  ‘I wonder if the world will ever know how close it came to being destroyed,’ Francesca says, looking across at the Ark, which by now is fully ablaze, sending a billowing cloud of smoke high into the sky.

  ‘Sadly not,’ Blodklutt says. ‘This was a covert mission, cloaked in secrecy from beginning to end. Outside of a few Church officials, the leaders of our orders, and a few university professors, no one else knows anything about it.’

  ‘Putting it like that makes it seem a hollow victory,’ Armand says. ‘No one will ever know what took place here – and what secrets lay beneath the Dead Sea.’

  Blodklutt shrugs. ‘That is the nature of our work. Much of the world is blissfully ignorant of the coming battle against the forces of darkness. And so our reward comes in the personal knowledge that we have championed the cause of good. We will not receive a fanfare celebration on our return home, bu
t our victories are not hollow. Indeed, they are anything but. Good men gave their lives to see this mission completed and prevent Armageddon. It is crucial that we tell our orders of the sacrifice these men have made. They may have died, but they have been guaranteed immortality in the memories of their brothers-in-arms. A true soldier could wish for nothing more.’

  There’s a moment of respectful silence as we reflect upon our fallen companions.

  ‘So where do we go from here?’ I ask at length.

  ‘Home,’ Blodklutt says matter-of-factly. ‘We’ll rest for the night and leave at first light tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Will it be safe to camp here?’ I ask.

  The Captain nods assuredly. ‘With the Watchers gone, the dead of Gehenna are free from their unholy magic. They rest in peace now, lying at the bottom of the Dead Sea. Rest assured, nothing will haunt these dunes tonight.’

  Armand sighs longingly. ‘I don’t know about anybody else, but I can’t wait to return to our barracks. And don’t be offended if you don’t see me for a fortnight. I intend to catch up on some well-earned sleep. But I must also say that I’m just glad to be off the Ark. I don’t know how Noah and his family lasted on that vessel for forty days and forty nights. Just one day was long enough for me.’

  I cannot help but grin. ‘Really? I thought you were quite fond of it.’

  Armand smirks in return, then looks across at Francesca. ‘And where will you go from here? Back to the Custodiatti? Or have we impressed you so much that you will join the Hexenjäger? You would be a breath of fresh air around the barracks, being the first woman to join the order.’

  ‘Don’t jest, Frenchman,’ Francesca says, ‘for I have actually decided to leave the Custodiatti. You say that there are no women in the Hexenjäger. Well, I might just have to change that.’

  Armand looks at Francesca askance. Even Captain Blodklutt tilts his head and raises an eyebrow – a rare show of emotion on his solemn features. I, however, merely nod my head, having half-expected such an announcement.

  ‘What? I was only joking,’ Armand says. ‘I had no idea you had actually made up your mind to leave the Custodiatti. But this is all too sudden. What’s brought about this decision? No, wait, don’t tell me. I know – you couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing my handsome face again.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ Francesca smiles, then looks at me. ‘I’ve always been a private person. So when he gets the chance, I’d like Jakob to tell you.’

  Armand regards me suspiciously, suddenly aware of the bond that has formed between Francesca and me. He had been so focused on the mission for the past month that he didn’t even know we had become close friends.

  He nudges me when Francesca is not looking and whispers, ‘You sly dog. When were you going to tell me about this?’

  I shrug. ‘Possibly at our wedding,’ I joke, knowing that my relationship with Francesca is based on a friendship built largely upon our capacity to understand one another, so she will understand that I’m only speaking in jest.

  Armand’s response comes in a handful of sand thrown in my face.

  Two weeks have passed since our return to Burg Grimmheim. It is evening, and Sabina and I are taking a walk around the castle’s battlements, watching the setting sun bathe the surrounding fields and hills in the most brilliant orange hue.

  ‘I’ve heard that Neapolitan girl is trying to join the Hexenjäger,’ Sabina says, having seen Francesca several minutes earlier with her talwar slung over her shoulder as she made her way to the castle’s training hall.

  Francesca met with Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel upon our return to the castle, requesting permission to join the order. She has received approval, but only on the condition that the Vatican gives its consent, and has written a letter to the head of the Custodiatti, informing him of her decision. Francesca has taken temporary accommodation in Dietrich’s former quarters whilst she waits for the Vatican’s response, and – much to Sabina’s annoyance – trains on a daily basis with Armand, von Frankenthal and me.

  ‘She’ll be a valuable addition to our order.’ I feel guilty that I have not discussed with Sabina the bond of friendship that developed between Francesca and me during the mission.

  Sabina scoffs and raises her eyebrows. ‘A valuable addition or a pleasant distraction? I know you think she’s great, but I still don’t like her. She gets around thinking she’s better than everybody else. She needs to be reminded that beauty is only skin deep.’

  Knowing that Francesca considers her beauty a curse, I merely nod in response.

  Sabina studies my unenthused reaction. ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘How?’ I ask defensively.

  ‘You’re more serious. I’m worried about you.’

  I smile dismissively. ‘I haven’t changed. I’m fine.’

  Sabina shakes her head. ‘No, you’re not. You haven’t been the same since you returned. You’ve been back for two weeks now and I’ve barely seen you. You haven’t been down to the kitchen in three days. What’s going on, Jakob?’

  I shrug. Although still tender, the wound on my side has healed nicely. Where my physical wounds have healed, however, I have been mentally scarred from the last mission; my sleep still haunted by the undead legion from Gehenna. ‘Nothing’s going on. I’ve just been busy, that’s all. Armand has been instructing me in swordplay, and Captain Blodklutt has started to teach me how to decipher the cryptic spells of the Malleus Maleficarum. I don’t have much time for anything else.’

  Sabina’s eyes narrow when I mention the Captain. ‘Don’t become like Otto. Be a skilled witch hunter, but don’t lose your love of life.’

  ‘Otto loves life,’ I say, surprised by Sabina’s comment.

  ‘Does he? He lives for one purpose only: to slay evil. Don’t turn out like him. His eyes are so cold, I wonder if his heart still beats.’

  ‘He’s a skilled witch hunter,’ I say in Blodklutt’s defence. ‘He’s been through a lot. And so have the rest of the Hexenjäger. It’s not an easy task to hunt and slay Satan’s forces.’

  ‘Then why are you doing this?’ Sabina says bluntly and holds me with her stare. ‘Why don’t you just walk away?’

  ‘You make it sound easy, but it’s not that simple.’

  ‘Why?’ Sabina presses. ‘No one will think any less of you. And don’t tell me that nothing happened to you on that last mission. It’s as if part of you got left behind. I know you are grieving for Dietrich. He was like a father to you. But life carries on.’ She demurs for a moment, as if searching for the courage to say something that is on her mind. ‘Not all of us have to be heroes. I sometimes worry that you are too much like Alejandro de la Cruz, wanting to climb as high as possible within the Hexenjäger. Become skilled in the art of slaying witches, but don’t become a victim of your own mythology. Hexenjäger are just flesh and blood, Jakob, and they can be killed – especially those who have had rapid promotion and little training.’

  Hurt, I look at Sabina. ‘You believe in speaking your mind, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m merely speaking the truth. I care about you and don’t want to see you get injured.’

  ‘Well, I won’t,’ I say. ‘You worry too much. I can’t just walk away from the Hexenjäger. I’ve joined the Order – I have become one of them. They are like brothers to me. I’ll never leave them, no matter how hard it gets.’

  I turn away from Sabina, frustrated. She is my closest friend after Armand, but I don’t like it when she questions my abilities. I know she is only concerned about my safety, but she makes me feel inadequate, as if I have not earned my place within the Hexenjäger. I may have joined the order through a fabricated letter of introduction, but my appointment as a witch hunter was due to my merits. I have been through Hell and back since joining the order, and I believe I can wear the crimson attire of the Hexenjäger with
pride.

  Besides, the last thing I need right now is for Sabina to make me doubt my fighting prowess. Earlier today, Armand, von Frankenthal and I met with the Grand Hexenjäger, requesting permission for a few weeks’ leave to search for my father in the Dutch Republic. He approved our request, and we plan on leaving in the next few days. Armand’s words have weighed heavily on my conscience – I should not judge my father. If we cannot turn to our family for forgiveness, who else can we turn to?

  I tell Sabina of my decision to enter the Dutch Republic. She looks out across the surrounding countryside, crosses her arms to her chest and says, ‘That doesn’t surprise me in the least.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I say, positioning myself in front of her, forcing her to turn to meet my eyes. ‘I need to find out if my father is alive. Surely you must understand that. You shouldn’t worry. This mission won’t involve fighting witches or Satan’s legions. This will be a walk in the park compared to what I’ve already been through.’

  I’m not too sure if Sabina is aware that the Low Countries is a war-zone, with the Dutch and English locked in a savage fight. Even the French have entered the conflict, having formed an alliance with the Dutch earlier this year. It’s best that Sabina doesn’t know this, for I very much doubt that this mission will actually be that simple. Sneaking into the Dutch Republic will be no easy task, but that will be nothing in comparison to breaking into Rotterdam’s prison, which von Frankenthal has informed me is nicknamed the ‘Devil’s Bowels’. I’m already concerned about the mission, and the last thing I need is for Sabina to be filling me with self-doubt.