The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3

by Stuart Daly

  Dear God! What have we got ourselves into?

  The beast looks like a wolf, but is as large as a horse. Even from this distance I can identify the slavering maw, armed with incisors over a foot long – it’s a Hell Hound! Perhaps it is just a trick of my imagination, but smoke seems to rise from its fur and its eyes are ablaze with hell fire.

  I point at the beast, unable to draw my eyes away from it. ‘How are we supposed to defeat that?’

  Armand fingers the pommel of his mortuary blade. ‘Everything can be killed. Remember, too, that we are on hallowed ground, meaning that the Hell Hounds will be stripped of much of their power.’

  ‘Look – there’s another,’ Prayer whispers, pointing over to the far left, where a second beast stalks through the mist, as if patrolling the perimeter.

  ‘And the remaining two are over there, on either side of the Hanging Tree.’ Francesca gestures with a nod to the black oak in the centre of the graveyard.

  ‘So we know the location of the demonic wolves,’ Witch Finder Blackwood says. ‘But there is no sign of the Sons of Cain. As I said earlier, I think they may already be in London. That will make our task here easier.’

  ‘Or they might be sleeping in their hidden lair,’ Francesca remarks dryly.

  ‘Either way, we should strike now, whilst the tree is guarded by only the Hell Hounds,’ Armand says.

  Brother Lidcombe gives Armand a terrified look, then sits with his back against the wall, chewing on his fingernails.

  Armand regards him with concern. ‘Are you going to be able to carry through with this?’

  Brother Lidcombe swallows. ‘Of course. I’m just a little nervous, that’s all. But it will pass.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Witch Finder Blackwood says, his brooding eyes locked on the monk. ‘Because a moment’s hesitation could prove to be fatal when we are down there. We will need to move fast.’

  Armand smiles reassuringly at Brother Lidcombe. ‘We are all nervous. But we are Christ’s warriors. He watches over us.’

  Taking strength from Armand’s words, the monk takes a steadying breath. ‘Any ideas as to how we are going to do this?’

  ‘This tower offers a perfect sniping position,’ Witch Finder Blackwood says promptly, as if he has already assessed the layout of the cemetery and formulated a plan of attack. He sits down beside the monk, and the rest of us join them. ‘Perhaps Jakob, Francesca and Dorian can take position up here, armed with their rifles and crossbow. They can provide cover for the rest of us as we make our way to the Hanging Tree. I also noted that the door providing entry into the tower can be locked from the inside. That could prove to be useful in keeping out the Hell Hounds should they decide to come after them.’

  Dorian shakes his head. ‘I work alone.’

  I roll my eyes. Now how did I know he was going to say that? He’s as predictable as the rising sun.

  ‘Normally, yes,’ Witch Finder Blackwood says. ‘But not on this occasion. And I want no further discussion of this matter.’

  Dorian considers the Witch Finder for some time before he shrugs. ‘If that’s the way you want it, then so be it. But how do you intend to reach the Hanging Tree? Those beasts aren’t going to sit back and just let you walk up there. They’ll rip you to shreds the second they detect you.’

  ‘The wind is blowing from the east,’ the Witch Finder says. ‘So we’ll enter the cemetery from the west. We don’t want the Hell Hounds picking up our scent before we’ve even set foot in the cemetery.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Dorian says. ‘But what will you then do?’

  ‘What would you do?’ Armand asks, throwing the question back at the English witch hunter.

  Dorian looks over the wall again, studying the layout of the cemetery and the location of the Hell Hounds. ‘Two hounds guard the perimeter. The other two, however, don’t seem to wander further than twenty yards from the Hanging Tree. And it’s these two that will prove to be the problem. Whilst you will be able to slip between the outer pair without too much difficulty, you won’t have any such luck with the hounds guarding the Hanging Tree. They will need to be drawn away from the area in order for you to reach the satchel and gibbets.’ He pauses, deep in thought. ‘One possible way of leading the hounds away is for one of you – and it cannot be the monk, for he will be needed to give the last rites to the skeletons in the gibbets – to reveal yourself, catching the hounds’ attention, and then run like hell. With any luck, the hounds will give chase, allowing the rest of you to make it safely to the tree.’

  ‘Pity help the sacrificial lamb,’ von Frankenthal remarks dryly.

  ‘Any other suggestions?’ Armand asks the rest of us.

  Dorian clears his throat. ‘It’s pointless having three of us stay up here in the tower. We’ll need every person we can spare to cut down the gibbets. Let me remain here by myself. I will use my rifle to draw the beasts over to the church. As was noted earlier, the door to the tower can be locked. It will also be a tight squeeze for the hounds if they attempt to come up through the trap door. Hopefully I can buy you enough time to allow you to do what must be done at the tree.’

  ‘That’s assuming, of course, that you can draw all four Hell Hounds over to you,’ Prayer says sceptically.

  ‘Which will be impossible,’ I say. ‘You would never be able to reload your rifle in time. You would be lucky if you could get off two shots. And even if you did somehow manage to get off more shots and draw the hounds after you, how would you then make your escape? That door will not keep the beasts at bay forever. It would only be a matter of time before they break into the tower.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see anybody else coming up with any better ideas,’ Dorian says. ‘So let me do it. It’s the only way of drawing the beasts away from the tree.’

  There’s an awkward moment of silence as Witch Finder Blackwood and Armand contemplate Dorian’s offer. At length, they nod reluctantly.

  ‘It’s a good plan,’ Prayer says, interrupting the officers before they have a chance to comment. ‘But it won’t work – not as long as Dorian is the only person assigned to the tower. Jakob is right; Dorian will never get enough shots off in time. There needs to be a second marksman up here with him.’

  I look across at Dorian and say reluctantly, ‘I guess it’s time to see what this rifle can do.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never fired a rifle before in your life,’ Francesca says. She receives a surprised look from Dorian, evidently recalling the Italian’s earlier comment that I was a crack shot. ‘I’ll do it,’ she replies.

  ‘No you won’t,’ Armand snaps. ‘Neither of you are going to do any such thing.’ He gestures for Francesca and me to follow him to the far side of the tower, where we can discuss the matter in private.

  ‘This is not a good idea,’ he says, his back turned towards our companions and his voice lowered so that they cannot hear. ‘If Dorian’s plan works, and the hounds are lured to the tower, it will become a death trap. I want neither of you up here when that happens. And don’t you dare argue back that I am only doing this because you think that I am questioning your fighting ability. This is simply too dangerous. I wouldn’t even allow von Frankenthal to stay up here as bait.’

  Francesca plants her hands on her hips in defiance. ‘But it’s all right to condemn one of the Angeli Mortis to their probable death? That’s courageous of you.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Armand says, visibly hurt by her comment. ‘That is Dorian’s choice.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Francesca says. ‘But you will never make it to the tree unless we manage to lure the Hell Hounds away. And irrespective of how skilled a shot Dorian is, he will not be able to do that on his own. I can get ten shots off with my crossbow in a matter of seconds. There will be enough of you down in the cemetery to free the gibbets, but Dorian will not be able to draw the hounds a
way unless he has my help.’ She pauses and looks deep into Armand’s eyes. ‘Besides, it will be a lot safer up here than down in the cemetery.’

  ‘Not when the Hell Hounds come after you – and mark my words, they will,’ Armand says. He considers Francesca for some time before his eyes soften in acquiescence and he curses under his breath in frustration. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to agree to this, but you can stay here with Dorian. I’m only letting you on the condition that you give me your word that you will be cautious. I’ll race back to help you the second we’ve finished doing what needs to be done at the tree.’

  Francesca smiles, not only in gratitude, I believe, but perhaps because she is touched by Armand’s genuine concern for her safety. ‘Thank you. And yes, I give you my word that I will be careful.’

  ‘Believe me, you won’t be thanking me if Dorian’s plan works and the hounds come after you,’ Armand mumbles under his breath as he returns to join the others and inform them of his decision.

  Francesca turns after him, but I grab her by the hand, forcing her to look back at me. ‘You’re very brave. Are you sure you want to do this?’

  ‘I’m no braver than you. Remember that you were first to offer to stay back with Dorian,’ she points out. ‘It’s like you said – Dorian will never be able to do this by himself. He needs assistance, and I am proficient with my crossbow.’ She pauses, and a wry smile crosses her lips. ‘Besides, I’m not having you stay up here. You’d more than likely take off someone’s head with your new rifle. Come on, let’s join the others.’

  Chuckling at Francesca’s comment, I follow her back to our companions, where I take my rifle off my shoulder and hand it to Dorian. ‘You’ll have much greater need of this than I will. You’ll get off three shots with this in a matter of seconds. Just make sure you don’t miss.’

  Dorian’s eyes narrow determinedly as he accepts the rifle. ‘Believe me, I won’t.’ He then turns to Witch Finder Blackwood. ‘You’d best get going. Hide down in the fields over to the west. When you are in position, Francesca and I will start shooting. Once we draw the hounds after us, make your way to the tree.’

  Armand turns to Francesca, evidently torn by his decision to allow her to stay. ‘We’ll be as fast as we can. And then we’ll come to help you.’

  She winks confidently. ‘Just worry about yourselves.’

  We move off, leaving Dorian and Francesca atop the tower. Just as I am going through the trapdoor, I notice Prayer linger behind. She talks briefly to Dorian in hushed tones, kisses him on the cheek and follows after us, tears in her eyes.

  Our pistols and blades gripped in our hands, we crawl across the scorched grass until we are some thirty yards or so away from the edge of the cemetery. Witch Finder Blackwood snaps up his hand, signalling for us to stop.

  Only a few seconds later, a massive figure prowls through the tombstones directly ahead. I shudder and stare up at the Hell Hound. It appears even larger now, standing over seven feet tall, its eyes blazing like Hell’s furnaces. Despite its size, it drifts silently through the mist, moving with the stealth of a cat stalking its prey.

  We wait for what seems an eternity before the Hell Hound moves up to the northern edge of the cemetery. Breathing a collective sigh of relief, we stare up at the distant church tower, where Dorian waves his rifle above his head.

  ‘That’s the signal,’ Witch Finder Blackwood whispers. ‘It’s time.’

  The next instant, a crossbow bolt whizzes out of the mist, and I turn my head to look at the Hell Hound that only recently stalked past us. Its head jolts back, as if hit by a sledgehammer, taking the full impact of Francesca’s shot. Staggering back, it shakes its head, disoriented. Before the beast has time to lift its blazing eyes up towards the tower, Dorian discharges his rifle. I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of his shot, which blasts straight through one of the hound’s eyes, exploding through its skull with a cloud of pink mist.

  As the beast drops dead, I cover my ears against a blood-curdling growl. It starts from the centre of the cemetery, near the Hanging Tree, and is answered by a more distant call from the south, near the edge of the forest. This is followed a second later by the sound of the three remaining hounds tearing towards the church, leaving swirling trails of mist in their wake.

  As soon as the Hell Hound to the south rushes past us, Witch Finder Blackwood leaps to his feet. ‘They’ve taken the bait. Let’s move!’

  We follow after him and sprint towards the cemetery.

  I just pray to God that we won’t be joining the dead buried there.

  We race into the cemetery, hurdling tombstones in our attempt to reach the Hanging Tree. Armand streaks ahead, his dual blades glistening in the mist. Then there’s Prayer and me, some ten yards or so behind the Frenchman. Wrapped in the folds of her black cloak, Prayer is a blur of movement, barely detectable in the gloom. Following us are Brother Lidcombe and Witch Finder Blackwood. The witch hunter’s face is set in a grim scowl, his eyes locked determinedly on the Hanging Tree. This is in direct contrast to the monk, whose eyes are wide with terror. He is frantically rubbing the crucifix hanging from his neck as if to give himself courage for the task ahead. Then, finally, bringing up the rear is von Frankenthal, a hulking mass of muscle, the rapier gripped in his hand looking like a toothpick protruding from a shoulder of ham.

  Glancing over to my right, I see the Hell Hounds tearing towards the church and realise that the tower will indeed become a death trap. Having seen one of the beasts killed with relative ease, I had hoped that we had overestimated them, and that Dorian and Francesca would be able to dispatch the remaining three hounds even before they reached the church, picking them off with their rifles and crossbow. But it’s only now I realise the peril they have placed themselves in. Whereas the first hound had been caught by surprise, Dorian and Francesca have lost the advantage, the remaining three beasts tearing through the mist with such speed that it almost defies comprehension.

  Three more of Francesca’s crossbow bolts zip through the air and Dorian, now armed with my rifle, lets off two shots in rapid succession. But the hounds are moving impossibly fast, and all of Francesca’s bolts miss their targets.

  Dorian’s claim that he is a skilled marksman, however, was no idle boast.

  His first shot is directed at the beast that had moved up from the south. The rifle ball punches into the beast’s muzzle, forcing it to snap its head to the side and howl in pain. But rather than kill it, Dorian’s shot only seems to enrage the beast, which now tears forward even faster than before.

  His second shot hits one of the hounds that had been guarding the Hanging Tree, punching into its left flank, knocking it off its feet and sending it crashing into a tombstone. Before Dorian has time to ready his third and final shot, the hound scrambles up and races towards the church. It now uses the mist to its advantage, weaving left and right so as to avoid presenting an easy target.

  Being the first to reach the Hanging Tree, Armand rips down the satchel and hacks it to shreds with his sabre and mortuary blade. He is joined a second or two later by Prayer and me, and we waste no time in sheathing our swords and scurrying up the trunk of the ancient oak. As the rest of our team assemble at the base of the tree, we climb out onto the branches and use our daggers to sever through the ropes tying two of the gibbets to the tree.

  The iron cages crash heavily to the ground. I look over towards the church, fearing that the sound might have alerted the Hell Hounds to our presence. Seeing that the beasts are still racing towards the tower, I breathe a sigh of relief and climb over towards one of the two remaining gibbets. I look across at Prayer, who is following my lead and making her way over to the remaining iron cage, and smile victoriously, believing that we are actually going to pull this off. Von Frankenthal and Witch Finder Blackwood have already prised open the bars of one of the gibbets and extracted the skeleton. Having produced a
Bible from his robe, Brother Lidcombe is now standing over the first of the Forsaken, delivering the last rites.

  And it’s at that moment I notice a cloaked rider watching us.

  ‘We’ve got company!’ I warn. As one, my companions snap their heads to where I point, but the stranger is no longer there. It is as if the horseman has been swallowed by the mist.

  ‘What did you see?’ Witch Finder Blackwood asks.

  ‘There was a man mounted on a black steed, some fifty yards down to the south,’ I say.

  The Witch Finder closes his eyes, as if fearing the worst. ‘And what is he wearing?’

  ‘A leather buff coat and a tan cloak,’ I say promptly, surprised that even though I only caught a fleeting glimpse of the rider, their image is burned into my memory. ‘He also has long, grey hair and a purple sash wrapped around his waist. A pair of pistols are holstered by the sides of the mount and a heavy blade is sheathed by his side.’

  Witch Finder Blackwood curses under his breath, produces the Malleus Maleficarum from the leather case slung over his shoulder and moves to the southern side of the Hanging Tree. ‘He wears the clothing of a Parliamentarian cavalry soldier from the Civil War. As uniform coats were not worn, officers often issued sashes to soldiers under their command as a means of identification. Purple was the colour chosen by General Ireton. And from the man’s grey hair, it’s safe to assume that it is the Warlock of Lower Slaughter. The Sons of Cain are here!’

  ‘I only saw the one rider,’ I clarify. Although I am glad to be up the tree, I look around fearfully, expecting the Warlock of Lower Slaughter to come charging out from behind a tomb. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘You carry on with the gibbets.’ Armand moves over to stand beside Witch Finder Blackwood. ‘Leave the Son of Cain to us.’