by Stuart Daly
I feel immense guilt for my actions, but I reconcile my sorrow and guilt by convincing myself that my uncle and aunt had always harboured suspicions that one day I would run away and follow the calling of my blood.
I might fail in this enterprise and fall flat on my posterior. But I’ll be damned if I give up before trying my hardest. And I won’t let someone like Bethlen be the reason for my failure.
What’s this? There’s movement up ahead. It’s Armand ‘why walk when you can saunter’ Breteuil, a twenty-three-year-old fop from the courts of Paris. He’s so vain he probably believes his portrait should be stuck up on town walls as part of a regional beautification program. But his foppish appearance is deceptive, for he’s a former captain of Louis XIV’s Royal Palace Cavalry and fights with dual heavy-bladed slashing cavalry sabres. That is, when he’s not waving the handkerchief that seems permanently attached to his hand.
Armand’s been scouting ahead for the past hour with a Scot named Robert Monro. Robert doesn’t say much. Getting the odd word out of him is more difficult than turning water into wine. He wears a crimson cassock, and a long-barrelled rifle is slung over his shoulder.
Armand and Robert have come back to report that we have arrived at our destination. On the top of a nearby hill lies Schloss Kriegsberg.
It was only this morning that I first heard of Schloss Kriegsberg. I had been sleeping in the Hexenjäger barracks at Burg Grimmheim in Saxony, exhausted from a day of cleaning the order’s arsenal of carbines and pistols, when Christian von Frankenthal’s gruff voice went off like a cannon, ordering me to attend a meeting in Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel’s office, where I was to be assigned my first mission. Hardly believing my luck, I dressed quickly and assembled with my six present companions in the office, an austere room with creaking floorboards and minimal furnishings – more like a monk’s cell than the office of the leader of our esteemed order.
Despite having spent his life as a professional soldier, it would be easy to mistake Grand Hexenjäger Johann Wrangel for a man of the cloth. There’s an aura of calmness about him, with his soft eyes and gentle nature.
The Grand Hexenjäger is responsible for diplomatic and administrative matters. His appointment is made by the Holy Roman Emperor, with whom he consults throughout the duration of his appointment, determining where the forces of darkness are massing, and where the Hexenjäger are needed. Immediately beneath the Grand Hexenjäger is his deputy, the Witch Finder General, who governs the order in his absence. Next in rank is the Treasurer, responsible for organising the order’s estate and managing its financial affairs. Then comes the Weapons Master, a position given to a Hexenjäger with great combat experience, and who is responsible for the order’s military training. Finally, three Captains – all veteran witch hunters – lead the order in the field. They are each assisted by a Lieutenant, who is essentially a Captain-in-training, and will take the role of the Captain should he fall in combat.
And here I am, stuck at the very bottom of the ladder, clad in the deep-brown tabard and cloak of an initiate. Even my wide-brimmed hat cannot be adorned with the crimson feather worn by the Hexenjäger. I will remain an initiate until I prove my martial worth to the order, at which point an induction ceremony will be performed, conducted in the barrack’s chapel. It is a deeply religious ceremony, involving fasting and an evening service of prayer. An initiate must wear a white robe, symbolic of their purity of heart and soul. Only at the conclusion of the ceremony is an initiate handed the crimson tabard and cape worn by the Hexenjäger, their colour symbolic of the blood a witch hunter must be prepared to shed in the name of Christ.
I am determined to earn the respect of the order, and so I listened intently to every word spoken by Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel.
Bathed in the dim light cast by a single candle, he told us the purpose of our mission. For over two months, Captain Joachim Faust had been on a secret mission to locate one of the seven trumpets of Jericho. As told in the Bible, the trumpets were used by Joshua to destroy the Canaanite city of Jericho. Along with the Ark of the Covenant, the trumpets had then been stored within the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem.
During the First Crusade the Knights Templar, responsible for the protection of pilgrims in the Holy Land, made the Temple Mount their headquarters and conducted excavations beneath the site. It is not known with any certainty what they discovered in the secret catacombs beneath the temple, but within just a few years they had become the most powerful and wealthy religious order in all of Christendom.
What is documented, however, is that Wilhelm Blonnheim, a Knight Templar who was present at the time of the excavations, returned to Württemberg with one of the ram’s horn trumpets used in the destruction of Jericho. He referred to it as the Scourge of Jericho. He provided no information on the other six trumpets, but told of how he donated the holy relic to his local church. It remained there until 1506. Then it disappeared. For over one hundred and sixty years its location remained secret.
Until today.
Captain Faust has tracked its location to Schloss Kriegsberg, a castle in the foothills of the Harz Mountains – deep in the heart of witch country!
Whoever acquires the trumpet will possess a weapon of immense power; a weapon that can destroy entire cities. They will, in effect, have the power of God in their hands. Understandably, we were dispatched with the utmost urgency. No time for breakfast. No time to even wipe the sleep from our eyes.
‘Deo duce, ferro comitante.’ Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel’s parting words: the creed of the Hexenjäger – God as my leader, and my sword as my companion.
I’m terrified, I must confess, at the prospect of venturing into witch country. I have barely had any training in the art of fighting witches. My entire knowledge of witches, in fact, has been compiled from conversations I have overheard during the course of the past week, whilst I have been running errands and cleaning the barracks at Burg Grimmheim. But the one thing I do know is that the Hexenjäger slay real witches – not women accused of heresy for misquoting the scriptures, but diabolical beings who have signed an unholy pact with Satan. I take strength in knowing that the Hexenjäger accompanying me on this mission are veteran witch slayers – and that the sanctity of our mission will guard us like armour fashioned in Heaven’s forges.
Lieutenant Blodklutt has been gone for over an hour now. After Armand’s report, he and Robert Monro rode off into the forest to meet with Captain Faust, the final member of our team, leaving the rest of us to wait by the horses in a clearing some fifty yards or so away from the trail that leads up to the castle. Christian von Frankenthal is as restless as a caged panther. He paces back and forth, back and forth. I’m surprised he hasn’t worn a hole in the ground. Only Klaus Grimmelshausen seems unperturbed. He sits on a log, his legs outstretched, his arms folded behind his head, puffing nonchalantly on a pipe: the perfect model of composure. If it wasn’t for the occasional puff of smoke from his mouth I’d swear he had fallen asleep.
I’ve been using this time to check the weapons I’ve been issued for this mission. My primary weapon is a rapier, which jostles by my side, swinging from a leather baldric. As only blessed weapons can kill witches and demons, my rapier has been consecrated by a priest and an inscription has been carved in the blade – Caelitus mihi vices.
Translation – My strength is from heaven.
Similar inscriptions are carved in every weapon I carry. Even every pistol and carbine ball, stored in leather pouches dangling from my belt, have been blessed with holy water. Such are the weapons of a witch hunter.
Dual flintlock pistols, half-cocked and ready to fire, are tucked into my belt, and a pre-loaded flintlock carbine is strapped across my back. Two throwing daggers are tucked into my leather top-boots. A bandolier of gunpowder completes the picture.
I’m not very proficient in the use of these weapons, but their mere presence offers me strength, making me feel as if I could take on Hell’s legions single-handedly.
SPLAT!
What was that? Something hit me square in the back. It’s soft and wet, like mud. But the stench!
I spin around, searching for the culprit, and spot Bethlen, wiping horse manure from his hands and sporting a grin that stretches from ear to ear.
I feel like going over and knocking him off his feet. But what would that achieve? He’d more than likely swat me aside like some troublesome fly and give me a bloodied nose for my effort. I’m desperate to earn the respect of the Hexenjäger and win my place within their ranks, and the last thing I want is Bethlen to ruin my chances with his insipid jokes. But now is not the right time to confront him. I don’t want to turn him into an enemy by reciprocating his attack just before we enter Schloss Kriegsberg. We don’t know what we’re going to encounter in there. I’d like to think that I’ll be able to count on all of my companions to guard my back. So it’s best, for the moment at least, that I continue to ignore his taunts.
I lower my head in shame and start to clean my tabard. Out of the corner of my eye I see von Frankenthal walk towards Bethlen, his features red with rage.
He stops before Bethlen and stares him hard in the eye. Then his knee lashes out. CRUNCH! Direct hit to the stomach.
Bethlen’s not grinning any more, and he teeters before falling to his knees.
Von Frankenthal walks away, satisfied. He is barely ten yards away from him before I hear a distinct click. Even I know that’s the sound of a pistol being cocked.
He stops dead in his tracks as he sees Bethlen in his peripheral vision, fumbling at a pistol. Before my eyes have time to register what’s happening, von Frankenthal dives and rolls to his right. He snatches a dagger from his boot, springs to his feet and aims the dagger at Bethlen’s direction.
‘Don’t make me dirty my blade,’ he says, with an air of indifference that shows that Bethlen’s death will be of no consequence to him.
One hand clutching his stomach, the other on his pistol, Bethlen freezes.
‘Lower your weapon and keep what dignity you have left,’ von Frankenthal commands. ‘And let there be no bad blood between us. You got what you deserved. The matter has been settled.’
Uneasy seconds pass before Bethlen lowers his pistol.
‘We are done?’ von Frankenthal asks, indicating he bears no grudge.
An awkward silence follows. ‘We are done,’ Bethlen finally says, then mumbles something incoherent under his breath, his lips set in a malicious sneer, and storms off to the far side of the clearing.
Von Frankenthal returns to his mount to check for something in one of his saddle bags, and I rush over to him, extending a hand in friendship. ‘Thank you,’ I say, elated that he has taken on the role of my protector.
Von Frankenthal turns and impales me with his stare. ‘What? Do not mistake what just happened here as an offer of friendship. Now get away from me.’
Dumbfounded, I stand lingering in front of him. ‘Then why did you stand up for me against Bethlen?’
Von Frankenthal releases an exasperated sigh. ‘Look.’ He points at a fleck of manure on the sleeve of his tabard. ‘Don’t expect me to come to your defence until you earn my respect, and I very much doubt you’ll live long enough to do that.’
My heart drops. I am, when all is said and done, an initiate with only one week’s experience in the Hexenjäger. As eager as I am to earn my place, I’m hardly going to be able to look out for myself if we are attacked by witches.
‘But you were assigned to protect me,’ I say.
Von Frankenthal takes a menacing step towards me, stabs a finger at my chest. The force of the impact knocks me to the ground.
‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do! I take commands from only one person here, and that’s Blodklutt.’ He then turns to walk away, but looks back at me. There’s a sorrow in his eyes, almost as if he knows I will not survive this mission. ‘Besides, there’s no point in looking out for you, Gerhard. You’ll be dead the second we enter the castle. The last thing I want is you getting in my way.’
Surely von Frankenthal knows by now that my name is Jakob. So why did he just call me Gerhard? And if I’m going to die the second we enter the castle, why was I brought on this mission in the first place? I feel like screaming the question at him. What good am I to anyone when it comes to fighting witches? All I’ve done for the past week is clean weapons and mop floors. I feel like I’ve been brought along on this mission solely to act as witch-fodder. I thought that when I joined the Hexenjäger I would at least be taught some basic skills in the art of killing witches. Instead, I’ve received no training at all, and now I’m heading off to a witch-infested castle.
I feel I know the kitchens of Burg Grimmheim better than the training hall, having spent nearly all of my free time down there, talking with Sabina, a sixteen-year-old kitchen-hand I befriended during the first day I arrived at the fortress. She is the only person I know who has faith in my ability to become a great witch hunter one day. I wish she were here right now. There is a warmth in her smile that I find comforting and, unlike the other girls I know back in Dresden, conversations with her are never awkward.
I’ve only got myself to blame for putting myself in this situation. I lied my way into the ranks of this order. As far as they are concerned, I have military experience. My forged letter stated that I had distinguished myself as a junior officer whilst serving under Generalissimo Montecuccoli, commander of the Holy Roman Empire’s Imperial Armies. Given the service rendered by my uncle to the Holy Roman Emperor – the patron of this order – I was correct in my assumption that a letter of introduction from my uncle would have been warmly received by the Hexenjäger. But I wanted to make sure that my entry into the order would be guaranteed, and so I fabricated an impressive military background. I’m beginning to regret concocting that lie.
I watch von Frankenthal move further away and feel my throat tighten. The stress of the past week is starting to overcome me, but I’m too proud to let my companions see me break down. So I swallow my emotional pain, climb to my feet and dust myself off. This is not exactly a promising start to my life as a witch hunter.
Armand swaggers over. Don’t tell me he’s going to start on me now.
‘Before he went off to find Captain Faust, Lieutenant Blodklutt asked me to give you some advice on how to fight witches,’ he says, as if he has read my thoughts. ‘Listen and learn. It may save your life. But first, a word of advice – you really shouldn’t anger von Frankenthal.’
‘I didn’t,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to thank him for sticking up for me.’
‘As I said, you shouldn’t anger him,’ Armand returns, dismissing my explanation. ‘Now, you were an ensign under Montecuccoli, yes? As a junior officer, I very much doubt you drew your sword. From my experience, ensigns of your age usually stand back in the rear lines, observing and learning from more experienced commanders, safe from all but cannon-fire. Rather than wear your sword out, I imagine you would have worn out the soles of your boots, running back and forth across the rear lines of battlefields, delivering messages. I know it’s not the most glorious of roles to play, but one can hardly expect to jump straight into the thick of battle.’
I nod, hoping that Armand won’t be able to see through my lie and relieved that he has provided me with an excuse for not being proficient in the art of swordplay. ‘I could have seen more combat.’
‘I thought as much. I shouldn’t really have to explain this to you, but your pistols and carbine will be your first means of defence against a witch. Take the witch out before it draws in close. Should you miss with your firearms, however, and be forced to engage a witch in close-quarters fighting, then you are going to have no option but to rely on your skill with a blade. Now draw your sword and show me your attack stance – en garde.’
Unbeknownst to my uncle, I had once purchased a copy of the Scienza D’Arme: a treatise on the art of swordplay written by the Italian fencing-master Salvator Fabris. It had taken me months to save enough money to buy the book
, and when I could find the time, I would sneak into our stable loft, arm myself with a mop handle, and work my way through the manual’s various chapters.
I assume a wide-legged traversing stance, trying my best to imitate the instructional sketches in the Scienza D’Arme. Armand circles around me, inspects my stance, flourishing his handkerchief as though he’s trying to wave down a fast-moving carriage.
‘No. You’re too tense,’ he says. ‘Relax your right shoulder, and don’t stand so heavily on your feet. You need to be mobile, ready to shuffle back and then dart forward the next instant. And you need to relax your wrist, but at the same time you need to tighten your grip on your sword. The last thing you want is to have your weapon ripped from your hand during combat.’
I swallow nervously and readjust my stance.
Armand nods in approval. ‘That’s better. There might be hope for you yet. Now a little about the blade you are holding. It’s a rapier – a thrusting blade, but with a flattened tip to allow a slashing edge. Yours has an ornate hilt and cross-guards to protect your hand. Such a sword is easy to handle. Lethal in the hand of a trained swordsman. A duellist’s weapon of choice. The particular style of rapier you are armed with is a Pappenheimer, named after Count Gottfried Heinrich, Graf von Pappenheim, a famous German cavalry commander during the Thirty Years’ War. It may have perhaps been wielded by a junior officer such as yourself in one of the great battles that took place in this country in the past few decades. But, most importantly, your blade has been blessed by the Church, granting it the power to slay witches.’