The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3

by Stuart Daly

  The blur of movement is Armand!

  I watch in shock as both figures fall in a twisted mess of limbs and plunge into the river. Believing Armand may be in need of my assistance, I pull myself free from the waterwheel. I crouch on the cross beams, draw a dagger from my boot and dive in after the Frenchman.

  I surface in the river and, surprised by the speed of the current, swim towards the pontoon on which my sword and the codex lie, and beside which Armand and Whitcliff are engaged in a savage fight. Armand has grabbed hold of the pontoon with his bandaged hand and is trying desperately to fend off the Son of Cain. Meanwhile, Whitcliff has lost his broadsword in the fall and is somehow managing to stay afloat in spite of his armour. His right forearm is locked around Armand’s neck in a vicious choke-hold.

  Reaching the combatants, I swim up behind Whitcliff and drive my dagger into his side, in the unprotected area beneath his chest plate. He roars in pain and lashes out with his left arm, but I pull back just in time, his fist flying through the air only an inch before my face. Breaking free from Whitcliff, Armand draws a dagger from his belt with his free hand, holds it blade-down and drives it into the Son of Cain’s neck.

  Whitcliff twists to his left at the last moment, avoiding Armand’s attack, then slams his right fist into the Frenchman’s jaw, knocking him back against the pylon. Wrestling the dagger free from the dazed witch hunter, Whitcliff draws back the blade in preparation to plunge it into Armand’s torso. Gasping in alarm, I propel myself forward, throw my left arm around Whitcliff’s neck, pull him back, and drive my dagger once more into the unprotected area on his lower right flank. His body spasms in pain and the dagger slips from his fingers. Rather than sink dead into a watery grave, he twists around to face me. His left hand shoots out to lock around my neck, forcing me to drop my dagger. His eyes blazing with fury, he pushes me back towards the churning waterwheel.

  I try to wrestle free, but he is too strong. Just as my head is within inches of being fed into the revolving wooden beams, something whistles past me. Whitcliff suddenly jolts back, clutching at the bolt lodged in his throat. He releases his hold of me and turns to look at Francesca, who is standing on the bridge, high above us, her crossbow targeting the Son of Cain. She shoots four more bolts in swift succession at Whitcliff, each finding its mark in the unprotected area just above his chest plate, in the nape of the neck.

  I swim away from the waterwheel, leaving Whitcliff to sink, dead, into the black waters of the Thames. Reaching Armand by the pylon, I assist him out of the river, collect my Solingen rapier and the Devil’s Bible, and look gratefully up at Francesca.

  ‘Must I always be the one to save you two?’ she calls, her crossbow rested against her left shoulder, her right hand on her hip in an exaggerated manner.

  Armand pats me on the shoulder and softly chuckles. ‘Now that’s what I call a woman.’

  ‘I gave you an order to head westward out of London.’ Armand gives me a stern look and wrings the water out of his tabard. ‘You and Francesca were the last people I expected to find here. You’re just lucky that Prayer and I decided to head this way to escape the fire. What are you doing here, of all places?’

  ‘Fabricius found us not long after you left us back near the cathedral,’ I explain, returning my rapier to its scabbard. ‘We had no choice but to make our way back into the city. We were hoping to head southwards across London Bridge, but got cornered by Whitcliff and the Warlock of Lower Slaughter.’

  Armand gives me a concerned look. ‘The Warlock of Lower Slaughter is here, too?’

  Surprised that Armand did not see the furies approaching from the south, I point in their direction. The Frenchman must have been so focused on Whitcliff that he failed to see them.

  ‘He’s down at the southern end of the bridge, slowly making his way up here,’ I say calmly, believing we still have time to climb back up to the bridge and escape into the city. My confidence has also been bolstered by the fact that we have now killed two of the Sons of Cain, and that Armand and Prayer have joined us.

  ‘The Warlock’s not that far away now,’ Francesca calls, an alarmed edge to her voice. She looks to the south and reloads her crossbow with a fresh cartridge of bolts. ‘The gunshots must have alerted him, and I’m sure he’s seen us by now. He and his furies are rushing this way.’

  Prayer appears beside Francesca and takes a few steps to the south. She produces the Malleus Maleficarum from the leather case slung over her shoulder and starts to search through its pages. ‘You’d better get back up here quick smart. Francesca is right; they’ve seen us. I reckon we’ve got about a minute before they’ll be on us.’

  I’m about to ask Armand if he knows what has become of the other members of our team, particularly von Frankenthal, when he draws my attention to a wooden ladder that scales the face of the stone pier in front of us and provides access back up to the bridge.

  ‘There’s no rest for the weary, is there?’ Armand mumbles, rubbing his throat and massaging the area where Whitcliff had choked him. He points at the ladder. ‘Youth before beauty.’

  Francesca comes down to assist me with the Devil’s Bible. We climb as fast as we can, but it’s a difficult undertaking, hoisting the codex between us, and by the time we gain the bridge the Warlock of Lower Slaughter and his furies have reached us. Fortunately, Prayer has been able to use the Hammer of the Witches to cast a spell, summoning a luminous blue force-field to surround us, keeping the furies at bay.

  At first the ghost-like hags amass to the south, raking their dagger-like fingernails against the magical barrier, probing for weaknesses. But then some of them move to the left and right, floating over the side of the bridge to encircle us upon the lowered drawbridge. There must be over two dozen of the spectral hags, and they fill the night with their horrific wails and cries. I notice people staring fearfully through the windows of the nearest buildings, alarmed by the earlier report of my firearm and the cries of the furies. Rather than come to our assistance, they shutter and bolt their windows, scared for their lives.

  ‘This could get better.’ I shudder in fear as I place the Devil’s Bible in the centre of the bridge, and around which we form a ring.

  ‘Nobody said this was going to be easy.’ Armand brandishes his newly acquired silver-bladed broadsword at the furies. ‘Remember, they can only be killed by silver weapons.’ As Francesca and I draw our silver-bladed swords, he glances over his shoulder at Prayer, who is reading frantically from the pages of the Malleus Maleficarum. ‘And be ready to use them; I don’t know how much longer Prayer can hold them off. She’s already been forced to summon the magic of the Malleus Maleficarum several times tonight. It’s taken a toll on her.’

  Francesca readjusts her grip on the leather-bound handle of her hunting sword in preparation for combat. ‘Then let’s finish this,’ she snarls. ‘I’ve had enough of running.’

  Armand gives a dogged grin and turns to face the furies. ‘My thoughts exactly. Let’s show them what the Hexenjäger, a former member of the Custodiatti and one of the Angeli Mortis can do.’

  Just then the furies move to the south part, revealing the Warlock of Lower Slaughter lurking in the shadows in the tunnel that burrows through the bridge buildings. His lips are set in a malicious sneer as he produces a long-barrelled pistol from beneath his cloak. He mutters some Satanic spell, and a small breach appears in Prayer’s force field, providing an opening just large enough for him to shoot through.

  Being the only one of our party to be facing the south, I reach instinctively for one of the pistols tucked into my belt, hoping to kill the Warlock before he can shoot. But I stop when I remember that not only do my pistols need to be reloaded – my gunpowder is also wet, rendering my firearms useless. Before I have time to warn my companions, the Warlock takes aim and – blam! – fires.

  I flinch instinctively, expecting to be blasted off my feet. But i
t is not me that takes the pistol ball. As the breach in the force field closes, I look to my right in horror as Francesca gives a cry of pain, takes two teetering steps forward, and drops to her knees.

  ‘Francesca!’ I rush to her side to support her with my shoulder, fearing that she has been mortally wounded.

  Her teeth clenched in pain, she clutches her right thigh, her fingers turning red with the blood spilling from the wound left by the pistol ball. ‘I-I’ve b-b-been hit, Jakob!’ she stammers, sliding out from beneath me to lie on her back, her eyes wide with shock.

  Armand is only a second behind me, and he pries away Francesca’s fingers to tear open a section of her breeches to inspect the severity of the wound. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he says after a few anxious seconds. He breathes a sigh of relief, and produces a dagger from the inside of his left boot. He cuts a strip of cloth from the hem of his cloak, which he uses to tie a tourniquet around the wound. He then takes off his cloak, folds it several times to create a pad, and instructs me to hold it firmly against Francesca’s thigh.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ he says, looking down at Francesca and stroking her cheek. ‘The ball’s entry and exit wounds reveal that it travelled straight through your leg. We just need to staunch the wound and stop the bleeding. The tourniquet and bandage will take care of that.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Francesca shudders against the pain in her leg. She then looks over at the Warlock of Lower Slaughter, her eyes widening in alarm when she sees him reloading his pistol. ‘He’s going to pick us off one at a time. We’ve got to stop him!’

  Armand clicks his tongue as he looks around the bridge, considering our options. His gaze eventually stops on a single-storey building located to the north, a few yards beyond the perimeter of Prayer’s force field. It is positioned off to the left of the roadway, just before it burrows into the buildings. A small wooden crucifix is located atop its roof, signifying that it is some sort of chapel.

  He points at the chapel. ‘Prayer, can you move back up the bridge until your force field covers that building over there?’

  Still chanting her spell, Prayer spares a sideways glance at the building and nods.

  ‘Everyone’s going to pull back to the chapel,’ Armand announces. ‘Once inside, you’re going to barricade the door, preventing the furies from coming in after you. And if they do break inside, at least you’ll be facing them on hallowed ground, giving you the advantage.’

  My eyes narrow in concern. ‘And what about you?’

  Armand rises to his feet, stares at the Warlock of Lower Slaughter and slashes his broadsword angrily through the air. ‘Me? I’ve got a score to settle.’

  ‘What? You’ll never be able to beat the Warlock and the furies! There are far too many of them.’

  Armand gives a reckless smile as he considers the screeching mass of ghost-like hags. ‘Really? I would have thought that the odds were on my side.’

  I shake my head, not impressed by his foolhardy bravado. ‘You can’t –’

  But Armand stops me with a raised hand. ‘I want no arguments, Jakob. Do as I have instructed and we still may have a chance of getting out of this alive. Now help Francesca to her feet. Prayer has already started moving back.’

  Not liking this one bit but unable to think of a better plan, I sheathe my rapier and hook the Devil’s Bible under my left arm. I then support Francesca with my right shoulder and assist her to her feet. Staying close to Prayer, who is still deep in an incantation, her eyes locked on the opened page of the Malleus Maleficarum, we move slowly over to the chapel.

  Reaching its iron-ribbed door, I try the handle and say a silent prayer when it turns. I push the door open and usher Prayer inside. Then, just as Francesca and I are about to follow after her, I look over my shoulder to see that the Warlock has reloaded his pistol and created another breach in the force field – his firearm is locked on us. I position myself protectively in front of Francesca to shield her from the shot, but Armand, still standing in the middle of the lowered drawbridge, waves his bandaged hand at the Warlock and draws his attention.

  ‘Over here, ugly,’ he taunts, stepping over towards the opposite side of the bridge, luring the pistol away from Francesca and me.

  An enraged sneer on his face, the Warlock takes the bait and redirects his pistol at Armand. He fires . . . and I stare in disbelief as Armand is blasted off his feet and lies in a twisted heap on the drawbridge.

  Letting go of Francesca – who staggers into the chapel, unaware of what has just transpired behind her – I take a hesitant step towards Armand, struggling to comprehend what I have just witnessed. A silent cry caught in my throat, I stare at him, willing the duellist to climb back to his feet and give me one of his cavalier grins. But he lies motionless, his eyes closed, his legs splayed awkwardly, and his broadsword still gripped in the lifeless fingers of his outstretched hand. Refusing to accept that Armand has been killed, I throw the Devil’s Bible into the chapel and am about to sprint over to his side when Prayer’s force field falters.

  As the furies come tearing towards me, I scream out in frustration and rage, retreat to the door and close it behind me. The instant before it slams shut, I pay one final look at my fallen friend, only to see his eyes flicker open and give one of his trademark roguish winks.

  Believing that Armand was not even hit by the Warlock’s shot but is only acting dead – perhaps as a ploy to catch the Son of Cain off-guard – I pull across the metal bolt on the inside of the door, locking it and sealing Francesca, Prayer and me in complete darkness. Only a few seconds later the furies hit the door, tearing into it with their dagger-like fingernails, trying to rend the wooden beams apart. But for the moment, at least, the door holds firm, and I stumble further into the chapel, groping in the dark, searching for some means of creating a light.

  Prayer utters a strange incantation somewhere over to my right, and a soft blue light fills the chapel, revealing that the English witch hunter is standing near the altar at the far end of the chamber. The light is coming from the opened pages of the Malleus Maleficarum, which she has placed atop the altar. Francesca is sitting on the floor a yard over to her left, her back propped against one of the chapel’s four pews. She holds Armand’s folded cape tightly around her injured thigh, applying pressure to the wound.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t hold the force field any longer.’ Prayer’s voice is strained from the effort of summoning the magic of the Hammer of the Witches.

  ‘We wouldn’t have made it to the chapel if it wasn’t for your magic,’ I say, scanning the interior of the chamber for some means of bracing the door. ‘And now you’ve provided us with light. So please, don’t apologise. In fact, we should be thanking you for saving us. But we’re not going to last long if the furies break into here. So I’m going to need your help in moving that up against the door.’ I point at one of the wooden pews aligned in two parallel rows before the altar. ‘Do you think you have the strength?’

  Prayer gives an exhausted nod. ‘It’s not going to do it itself, is it? Come on.’

  Despite being only three yards long, the pew is constructed of heavy oak, and it takes us several attempts to position it against the door. We then move back to join Francesca at the far side of the chapel, our eyes locked on the door, which shudders against the furies’ relentless efforts to break inside. In addition to the wraiths screeching and clawing at the entrance, we can discern the sound of clashing blades.

  ‘Armand has engaged the Warlock of Lower Slaughter!’ Francesca says, sitting upright.

  I shake my head, my frustration building, feeling an irresistible urge to pull back the pew and burst out of the chapel to help Armand. ‘This isn’t right. We can’t just leave him out there!’

  ‘As much as I hate this, Armand gave us an order,’ Francesca says. ‘Perhaps he believed we would only get in his way, distracting him from slaying th
e Warlock and the furies. He can hardly kill them if he is forced to protect us. Besides, you need to stay in here, Jakob. I can barely stand, let alone wield a sword, and Prayer is exhausted. If the furies break inside here, we’ll be counting on you to guard the codex.’

  ‘She’s right.’ Prayer leans against the altar, so tired that she can barely stand. ‘The Malleus Maleficarum has sapped the strength from me. We’ll be in need of your blade to protect us.’

  Knowing that Prayer and Francesca are right, I curse under my breath and pace back and forth, listening to the sounds of combat outside. I pray that Armand will survive.

  For what seems to be an eternity we wait in the chapel, staring anxiously at the door, our ears assailed by the screaming furies and the squeal of steel on steel. As I’m about to move over to the door and brace my shoulder against it for added support, the sound of shattering glass forces me to spin around. I stare in disbelief at the fury that has just smashed its way through the stained-glass window behind the altar – a window that up until now I had failed to notice – and is tearing towards Prayer.

  ‘Look out!’ I yell, hurdling over a pew and racing towards Prayer.

  She snatches her silver-bladed hunting knife from her belt and slashes instinctively at the fury, cleaving it in half with a back-handed swipe. Even before the fury has turned to ash, several more scream through the shattered window, and we find ourselves fighting for our lives.

  I pull Prayer away from the opening and push her to the opposite side of the chapel, where I believe it’s safe. I then stand protectively beside Francesca, who struggles to her feet, draws her hunting blade and tries in vain to slash out at the swirling hags. Sending the closest fury recoiling with a swipe of my silver rapier, I’m forced to dodge deftly to my right, almost knocking over Francesca, and narrowly avoid a raking claw that seems to come out of nowhere. My training taking over, I deliver a lightning-fast thrust at this second wraith, my blade puncturing through its neck, to send it back to Hell.