by Stuart Daly
‘Didn’t we see the Ghost over there?’ Francesca asks, pointing at one of the buildings to the left of the fountain.
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘But it’s hard to tell. The buildings here all look the same to me.’
‘This is a fine mess we’re in,’ Lieutenant Wolf says, and points in the opposite direction to Francesca. ‘I thought it was over that way.’
It’s then that a shadow darts along the rooftops overlooking the courtyard, leaping deftly across the expanses that separate the buildings. Some of the guards snap their firearms up at the shadow and take aim, but they are stopped by Prince Rupert.
‘Lower your weapons!’ he orders. ‘Are you that blind that you can’t tell friend from foe? It’s the witch hunter.’
Alarmed that I too was about to unknowingly take aim at Armand, I breathe a sigh of relief. I stare up at the shadow and realise that the French duellist is indeed recognisable by the moonlight glistening on the honed blades of his swords and the occasional glimpse of the crimson tabard beneath his billowing black cloak. Whereas we have lost track of the Ghost, Armand is hot on his trail, and again we are directed back on the hunt by one of his blades – this time pointing over to the left, to the rooftop of another distant building.
Again we give chase, racing through a narrow lane off the courtyard, eventually finding our way blocked by a ten-foot-tall wall.
‘We’ve come to the end of Whitehall,’ Lieutenant Wolf calls over his shoulder as he turns right and chases after the Prince and Francesca, who are following the course of the wall. ‘We’d better be quick. We’ll never be able to catch the Ghost if he makes it into the streets of the city. He’ll disappear faster than a flea on a dog’s coat.’
Following at the end of the company, I am overcome by a wave of dizziness. Before I have time to alert my friends, a thousand pinpricks of flashing silver assail my vision, and I am forced to fall back from the others. Knowing that I should have remained at the Prince’s lodgings and given my head wound time to fully heal, I rest my hands on my knees, suck in air and wait for the dizziness to subside. When I finally feel well enough to continue, I look up again. Only to find that my companions and the English guards have continued after the Ghost, and I’m left alone in the darkness.
I follow the course of the wall – hoping that it isn’t too late to catch up to my companions – and feel my way through the darkness, careful not to over-exert myself. After some forty yards or so the wall ends at a fortified gate, its portcullis raised. Strangely, there is no sign of any sentries. Curious as to why this gate that leads from the city of London into the King’s district of Whitehall should not be guarded, I peer into an adjoining guard room, wait for my eyes to adjust and get the fright of my life.
For I have discovered how the Ghost gained entry to Whitehall.
The sentries are lying at my feet in pools of blood, their throats slit from ear to ear.
I cross myself and stagger back from the gruesome scene, painfully aware of how dangerous this night’s enterprise has become. Whereas I had initially considered the chase through Whitehall as a thrilling diversion from the greater peril awaiting us tomorrow, when we will be called upon to face the Sons of Cain, I only now realise how deadly and ruthless an opponent the Ghost is. He is not simply a glorified thief and spy, but a merciless killer.
Fearing that any shadow could harbour the Ghost – his eyes monitoring my every move, his dagger poised in preparation to slit my throat – I move warily through the portcullis and into the streets of London, praying to God that I can find my friends.
The instant I step through the portcullis, it is as if I’ve passed a portal into a different world. Gone are the stately buildings and extensive gardens of Whitehall, replaced by the twisted squalor of the great metropolis. This is the London of which von Frankenthal had warned me: a city of vice and moral decay.
I find myself standing in a narrow alleyway, its floor of filthy cobbles, with a refuse-clogged gutter cut down its middle like some festering wound, its fetid stench almost making me gag. Perhaps I am projecting my fear of the night onto my surroundings, but the houses and buildings here have a sinister feel to them. The timber-framed tenements and hovels lining the alley are ramshackle and twisted, as if they have been inflicted by a terrible disease that has retarded their growth. Their gables project out over the alley itself, giving the impression that I have entered the den of some great beast. There are no lanterns lighting the alley, nor does any candlelight escape through the hovels’ shuttered windows – a realm of shadows perfect for cut-throats and footpads. All is quiet.
I am tempted to call out to my companions. Just one shout – that’s all I would need. I’m sure they would hear my call and retrace their steps to find me. But I dread to think who else will answer my summons. And so, erring on the side of caution, I decide to follow the alleyway until I at least reach the first cross-street. If I haven’t found my companions by then, I will return to Whitehall and try to make my way back to Prince Rupert’s lodging.
My Pappenheimer rapier and a pistol readied for combat, I sneak down the alleyway and nearly jump out of my skin when someone belches from one of the overhanging gables. Wiping cold sweat from my brow, I regain my composure and continue forward. I search every shadowed recess, wary that it may conceal either the Ghost or some unsavoury denizen of the night.
The alleyway eventually joins a larger road, and I hurry instinctively over to a lantern hanging from the front of a nearby building. Somewhere in the distance I can hear evidence of life – a slamming door, voices raised in heated discussion, and a dog barking – but there is no sign of my companions.
Deciding that it will be prudent for me to return to Whitehall, I go to turn around. And it’s at that exact moment a shadow drops from a rooftop only a yard or so over to my left. I whip up my pistol and take aim at the figure, who rises to their feet, their back turned towards me.
‘Move and I’ll shoot!’ I threaten.
The figure freezes, then raises its hands and mumbles something in English; the voice revealing that it is a man, and he is terrified.
‘Be silent!’ I warn, believing by sheer luck that I have caught the Ghost, who has somehow managed to evade my friends and is trying to fool me into thinking that he is a common Londoner.
Again the man says some panicked words. Then he starts to turn around.
‘Stop!’ I try to make my voice sound as threatening as possible, which is not an easy task when my insides are churning with fear.
Unable to comprehend my commands in German, or at least pretending not to understand, the man continues to turn until he faces me. Seeing the pistol trained at him, he gives a startled cry, clasps his hands together and sobs for mercy. He is so convincing that I begin to wonder if I have been mistaken; that he is indeed some startled Londoner – perhaps some amateur footpad whose path I have inadvertently crossed.
As I study the man in the dim light cast by the nearby lantern, I am left with no doubt that he is no common thief. Although his features are concealed beneath a wide-brimmed hat, his breeches and shirt are of black silk. The rapier hanging by his side has an expensive bejewelled cross-guard. But the dead giveaway is the documents tucked under his belt.
‘You can drop the facade,’ I say, levelling my pistol straight at the man’s face. ‘I know who you are, le Fantôme.’
As soon as I say this, the man stops pleading and lowers his hands. I get the sense that his eyes – the cold and compassionless eyes of a slayer – are studying me from beneath the brim of his hat.
‘And what are you going to do about it, boy?’ he asks in fluent German, his tone confident, as if he has nothing to fear.
I feel my throat tighten. ‘I won’t miss at this range.’
The Ghost tilts back his head slightly, raising the brim of his hat just high enough to reveal the thin line of his li
ps. ‘Your bravery is to be commended, but don’t fool yourself. I’m not in the habit of taking lives, particularly of someone so young. Though if you don’t lower that pistol, I’ll have no choice but to kill you.’
My finger tightens on the trigger. ‘Don’t underestimate me. I am a Hexenjäger. Don’t think you’ll be the first person I will have killed.’
My words are intended to intimidate the Ghost, to make him second-think in trying to rush me. But I only achieve to make a mocking grin appear on his lips.
‘Then so be it,’ he says.
Believing that any second now the Ghost is going to launch himself at me, I snap my pistol down towards his right thigh in the hopes of crippling him. The instant I lower my firearm, however, he becomes a blur of motion.
With a speed that leaves me gaping, he springs to his left. Swinging my pistol after him, I panic and fire – at the same moment the Ghost lashes out with his right foot, kicking aside my firearm, the shot ricocheting off the cobbles several yards off to my right.
Capitalising on his attack, the Ghost draws his blade and lunges at my torso. I leap back from the skewering point of his rapier and flick up my Pappenheimer just in time to parry aside a second thrust, this time delivered to my thigh. I correctly anticipate the Ghost’s next attack as a thrust to my face and step back and parry aside his blade to deliver a riposte, my sword snaking out at the Ghost’s lower chest.
The Ghost swats aside my rapier and feigns to his left, drawing my blade after him. He then darts back to the right, the point of his rapier aimed at my neck. I cry out in alarm and stagger back, tripping on a cobblestone and dropping my sword in the process. I slam into the front wall of a house and, closing my eyes, brace myself for the cold bite of the Ghost’s steel.
Only it doesn’t come, and I open my eyes to find that the Ghost has stopped his attack just at the moment of impact, the point of his rapier pressed against the soft flesh of my nape.
‘I told you that I don’t kill boys,’ he says, and I am shocked that such a cold-blooded killer can show mercy. ‘There have been too many unnecessary deaths this night. Now go home to your mother.’
Withdrawing his blade, he steps back, wedges the toe of his boot under my discarded Pappenheimer, and flicks it up to catch it with his free hand. ‘A fine blade,’ he says, inspecting the sword. ‘And imbued with holy inscriptions. The blade of a witch hunter. A rare prize indeed. Maybe one day we will meet again . . . until then consider this sword mine.’
‘But you can’t!’ I protest. Not only do I feel great sentimental attachment to the sword, being the first blade I have ever owned, but I will need it more than ever when we face the Sons of Cain.
There’s a flash of white in the darkness as the Ghost smiles. ‘I can, and I will.’
Hearing the distant sound of people approaching – possibly my companions, alerted by the report of my pistol – and alarmed by the lamps turning on in the neighbouring houses as curious residents rise to see what the commotion is all about, the Ghost bows and makes his escape.
Only to stop dead in his tracks as a shadow detaches itself from a nearby doorway, its rifle trained on the French spy.
‘Don’t expect any mercy from me, French dog!’ Dorian snarls in stilted German, stepping out into the middle of the road to intercept the Ghost.
‘Nor from me,’ says another voice with a strong Italian accent.
A smile crosses the Ghost’s lips as Dorian and I look up to a neighbouring rooftop, barely ten yards away, where the moonlight glistens on the barrel of the pistol gripped in the hand of a cloaked figure perched on the edge of the roof.
A cold chill races through my skin at the realisation that not only does the Ghost have an accomplice, but that he might have watched my entire confrontation with the French spy, waiting for the right moment to intervene.
‘It appears we have a stand-off,’ the Ghost says, and starts to move slowly down the road.
Dorian raises his rifle to his shoulder to take aim at the Ghost’s head. ‘Don’t move! Take another step and I won’t hesitate to shoot.’
The Ghost pauses and considers Dorian for a few seconds. ‘Black clothing. A face adorned with crucifixes. If I am not mistaken, you must be one of the Angeli Mortis.’ He looks back at me. ‘And working with the Hexenjäger. Something big must be brewing in London for rival Catholic and Protestant orders of witch hunters to join forces. But I hardly see how this has got anything to do with me. Why don’t we do the sensible thing and lower our weapons. None of us really want to die here. Let’s just walk away and forget that any of this took place. You can carry on with your business, and my companion and I will disappear into the night.’
Dorian snickers. ‘I have no fear of death. And you won’t be leaving this street alive.’
Realising that the Ghost’s attempt to defuse the situation won’t work with Dorian, I reach slowly for the second pistol tucked into my belt. I have barely moved, however, before the man atop the roof aims his pistol at me. I freeze, too afraid to even breathe.
‘Try that again, and I’ll send you straight to God,’ he hisses.
‘But not before I send the Ghost straight to Hell!’ Dorian threatens, rolling a shoulder as he perfects his aim.
The Ghost lowers his head in a disappointed manner. ‘Then it appears we have reached an impasse, and you leave me no choice.’ He looks up at his companion, who whips his pistol back at Dorian. ‘Do you have a clear shot?’
The cloaked stranger stares down the barrel of his pistol and nods. My heart racing, I watch helplessly as he takes aim at Dorian and fires.
There’s a simultaneous flash and BLAM! as both Dorian and the stranger fire. Dorian takes the full impact of the stranger’s shot, being knocked off his feet and smashing through the window of the house immediately behind him. Meanwhile the Ghost, having snapped his head to the side at just the last moment, manages to dodge Dorian’s shot, the rifle ball smacking into the wall of a nearby house.
Snatching the pistol from my belt, I race to the cover of a nearby doorway recess and take a hasty shot at the cloaked figure, whose head jolts back. He clutches at his right ear – or rather, where his right ear used to be – removes his hand and stares at his blood-soaked palm. Then his eyes lock on me. Giving a savage cry, he springs from the roof and lands on all fours in the middle of the road, making the fifteen-foot drop appear effortless. He rises to his feet. There’s a hiss of steel as he draws a dagger from his belt and stalks over towards me. My heart pounding, I produce my second rapier and prepare to face the enraged stranger.
‘Spartaco, we don’t have time for this!’ the Ghost warns, racing over to grab his companion by the arm and drawing his attention to the crowd of onlookers, who have gathered at the windows of the houses on the street. ‘We need to go – now!’
Spartaco shrugs aside the Ghost, mutters something furiously under his breath and continues to advance towards me. Believing my only chance of surviving this encounter lies in striking first, I assume an offensive stance and lunge forward. To my horror, Spartaco entangles my blade in the S-shaped cross-guard of his dagger. He produces a second dagger from beneath his cloak with his left hand and darts forward, thrusting at my chest. I give an involuntary cry of alarm and leap back, narrowly avoiding the blade, but finding myself trapped in the doorway recess.
Spartaco steps forward, a malicious sneer crossing his lips. My rapier is still caught in the dagger held in his right hand. But it is to his other dagger that my eyes fly, for it is drawn back in preparation to gut me like some stuck pig. My left hand reaches to the fold of my boot, searching desperately for one of my daggers, but I know that it is too late. Spartaco lunges forward, his glistening blade heading straight for my chest.
I brace myself for the impact – for the punch of steel that will end my life. But then a firearm discharges, knocking Spartaco off his feet.
What?
I look to the left and blink against the impossibility of what I see. Dorian leans through the smashed window, a smoking pistol in hand. His other hand is clutching his chest, and his face, a lacerated, bloody mess, is contorted in pain.
But how is this possible? I had seen Dorian take the full impact of Spartaco’s pistol. He should be lying dead in a bloodied heap, not coming to my rescue. Is it possible that the Angeli Mortis have delved so deep into the Malleus Maleficarum that they have learned how to cheat death itself?
I rush over to Dorian and help him climb through the window. I then turn around to face our opponents, only to find that the Ghost has dragged Spartaco to his feet and is supporting him with a shoulder as they scurry off down the road.
‘Don’t let them escape,’ Dorian wheezes, pushing away from me and attempting to give chase. He barely takes three steps before he staggers and collapses to his knees. He produces the second pistol from his belt and hands it to me. ‘Finish this.’
I thumb back the firing pin and take aim at the fleeing duo. But my shot is stalled when I hear voices from behind. Turning around, I lower the pistol and breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of my companions. They have just appeared at the far end of the street, some fifty or so yards away, illuminated in the wan glow of light cast by the guard’s lantern. I can clearly make out Francesca and Prince Rupert at the front of the company, and the towering form of von Frankenthal bringing up the rear.
I am distracted for only a second or two, but by the time I turn around to take my shot, the Ghost and Spartaco are nowhere to be seen.
Francesca is the first of the group to reach Dorian and me.
‘Thank God we found you, Jakob,’ she says, grabbing me by the shoulders and inspecting me for injuries. ‘We hadn’t even realised that you had become separated from us until we heard the gunshots. I had moved to the front of the group, and believed you were with von Frankenthal at the rear. He thought likewise.’