by Stuart Daly
Shocked by Bethlen’s lack of gratitude, I turn my attention to Lieutenant Blodklutt. He’s already dispatched two of the witches. A third is nursing a vicious wound on its left shoulder. But the Lieutenant is unscathed, and I have barely taken two steps when I realise my assistance is hardly needed. Blodklutt weaves forward in a synchronised dance of death, his blade a blur of silver. It’s over in a heartbeat.
The final witch slain, we gather in the centre of the courtyard, our backs to one another, weapons at the ready, half expecting the courtyard floor to erupt like Judgement Day. But the only movement comes from the battlements overlooking the courtyard. Robert has reloaded his rifle and is providing cover from the western wall. He’s been joined by Klaus and von Frankenthal. Armand and Captain Faust appear on the battlement opposite.
Having issued orders for Klaus and Robert to check the inner gatehouse, Captain Faust, accompanied by Armand and von Frankenthal, makes his way down to the courtyard. As Lieutenant Blodklutt goes over to report what happened, I wander off to a quiet corner. The rush of adrenaline subsides, leaving me with a shocking awareness of how bloody the skirmish was and how lucky I am to have survived. A sickness wells in my stomach and my sword-arm starts to tremble. Not wanting my companions to see me in this state, I turn my back towards them and try to fight back the feeling of nausea.
Not long has passed before I become aware of a massive presence behind me.
‘I told you to stay out of combat,’ von Frankenthal scolds, noticing the blood on my hands and the torn state of my clothes. ‘You want to be a hero, go ahead. But don’t expect to make it out of here alive. Who do you think you are – Alejandro de la Cruz?’
De la Cruz is a living legend – a nineteen-year-old Spaniard who has risen to the rank of Captain within one year of joining the Hexenjäger. I’ve never met him, but I’d have a purse full of gold if I were to receive a coin for every time I’ve heard his name mentioned around Burg Grimmheim.
I’m so focused on fighting back the sensation of nausea that I’m hardly aware of my reply. ‘Punishing me for Gerhard’s death will not bring him back.’
Before I know what’s happening, von Frankenthal grabs me, spins me around, and pins me – hard – against the courtyard wall. ‘Don’t you dare mention his name again. Ever!’
His eyes are blazing with rage, and for a moment I fear he might smash my head against the wall. But then he gives me a final shove and stalks off, leaving me rubbing my neck, wondering how I managed to muster the nerve to criticise him.
Armand was correct when he said that von Frankenthal has a lot of pent-up anger concerning Gerhard’s death. But he can’t go on blaming himself for what happened. Nor will I allow him to keep venting his anger at me. He has, when all is said and done, been assigned to protect me during this mission. Even if it means risking personal injury, I must make von Frankenthal accept his new charge – make him accept responsibility for my safety. I don’t know exactly how I’ll go about achieving this, but I have to start somewhere.
Surprisingly, the encounter with von Frankenthal has distracted my thoughts from the fight with the witches and quelled my nausea. In an effort to keep my mind off the horrific skirmish, I start to clean my bloodied blade on the tattered remnants of my tabard. Not long has passed when I look up to see Armand standing before me.
‘Let’s get those wounds bandaged,’ he says and, with a flask of water, a phial of pungent salve and some makeshift bandages, he starts to tend my wounds. ‘You’ll be sore for a few days, that’s for sure, but there’s nothing serious here. You’ll live. Nobody comes out unscathed from their first encounter with a witch.’
‘You’re just being polite,’ I say dismally, wincing in pain as a bandage is applied to my right arm. ‘I bet you weren’t injured.’
‘I’ve got a scar that will argue otherwise.’ Armand pulls back his sleeve, revealing a pearl-grey scar running the length of his left forearm. ‘Compliments of the first witch I ever fought. You’ll find all of the Hexenjäger – even Blodklutt – bear such trophies.’
Whereas Armand is proud of his scar, considering it a memento of his initiation, I wish I could erase the memory of the skirmish from my mind forever. I never again want to be reminded of this horrific ordeal. I fear, however, that even though my scars will heal and eventually fade, the experience is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
‘I think I’ve made a big mistake,’ I say. ‘I don’t belong here. I don’t have what it takes to become a witch hunter. I thought I could be a soldier like my father, but I was wrong.’
I’m even about to tell Armand that my letter of introduction was fake, that I lied about being a junior officer under Montecuccoli, that I have never seen a battlefield in my life. But before I have a chance to confess, Armand grabs me by the shoulders and forces me to look into his eyes.
‘You told me before that your motive for joining the Hexenjäger was to answer an inner call,’ he says. ‘Well, I think you may have found your calling. Blodklutt reported that you slew three witches. No initiate has ever done that – not even De la Cruz. I’ve also heard that you came to the defence of Bethlen and saved his life. That’s an impressive start for someone with so little training in the art of killing witches. There’s more to you than meets the eye, Jakob von Drachenfels. What you lack in skill with your blade, you make up for in spirit, and that’s something that no amount of training can provide. You might only be sixteen, but there’s the spirit of a warrior within you.’ He releases his grip on my shoulders and his eyes soften in their intensity. ‘You mentioned your father before. Tell me about him.’
I shake my head and sigh. ‘There’s not much to tell. He died when I was four. All I know is that he was a soldier – a cavalry commander, in fact – who fought in the Low Countries, hiring his sword out as a mercenary for the Spanish. I even know he spent some time in Castile. But that’s all I know.’
Armand looks at me square in the eye. ‘He’d be proud of you. And I’m sure his spirit lies within you.’ He pauses, twists an end of his moustache in thought. ‘I may know someone who might be able to shed some light upon his life. It’s a long shot, and I certainly don’t want you to get your hopes too high, but one of our order, a man by the name of Dietrich Hommel, served in the Low Countries some fifteen years ago. He was part of a German cavalry unit. As I said, you shouldn’t get too hopeful, for thousands of German soldiers fought alongside the Spanish in the Netherlands. But I suppose it’s a start.’
Armand’s words strike a tender chord in my heart, filling a void I never believed could be filled. Could it be that I might finally begin to find some answers as to who my father really was?
‘I also believe that if your father were alive today he would have joined the Hexenjäger,’ Armand continues. ‘You must remember that we are the first line of defence against an evil that threatens to engulf our world. Like it or not, it is out there, lurking in the shadows, and it grows stronger with each passing day. And it’s people like you and I who will drive back the darkness, protecting all that is good. I believe we have all been given the gift of life in order to fulfil a specific purpose. I’ve spent my entire life searching for my purpose, and I still haven’t found it. But it looks to me as if you may have just discovered yours.’
Armand’s conviction and passion stir something deep within me. The thought of leaving the Hexenjäger is momentarily swept aside. Again, I find myself imagining that the Hexenjäger is the contemporary equivalent of the military orders of old – Christian warriors defending the borders of the Holy Land against the forces of evil. But this time the stakes are higher. This time we aren’t fighting the Infidel, but the Devil’s legions. Granted, it’s dangerous work, but no cause has ever been so just.
‘Besides, I think we’ll be going in as one unit from here on,’ Armand says, noticing the effect his words are having on me. ‘I’ll be able to keep an eye out for you. So what am I to do? Am I to go over to Captain Faust and report that you’re plannin
g a mutiny? Or am I to report that we have one of the finest witch hunters in the making over here?’
I can’t help but smile. ‘I’m hardly planning a mutiny. And, yes, you’ve managed to convince me to stay.’
Armand puts an arm around my shoulder and escorts me back to the others. ‘You know, you had me worried there for a while. And don’t worry about Revelation 6.8. He has nothing personal against you. Besides, you can’t leave this order. Who else will I have to talk to – Bethlen?’
‘Talking about Bethlen, why does he resent me so much?’ I ask, wondering if Armand can shed any light on the topic. ‘I saved his life just now, and he looked at me as if he wished I were dead. I don’t understand him at all.’
Armand shrugs, looks over at Bethlen. ‘I consider myself a good judge of character, but I cannot read people’s minds. Have you ever tried talking to him, asked him why he dislikes you?’
I shake my head. ‘No, but I might follow your advice.’
We rejoin the rest of our team and start to reload and ready our weapons. I can’t help but notice the resentful look Bethlen is throwing my way. My confidence bolstered by Armand’s encouraging words, I decide it’s time to find out what lies at the heart of Bethlen’s resentment towards me.
‘That was some fight,’ I say, trying to initiate conversation.
Bethlen looks me up and down, his upper lip curled in distaste. He grunts, turns his back on me, and continues to clean his blade.
‘I know you might not want to talk right now, but there’s something I need to know,’ I press, my voice kept low so that the others can’t hear. ‘It’s no secret that you don’t like me. But what have I ever done to offend you? I know I’m only an initiate, and have yet to prove my value to this order. But I can’t help feeling you genuinely dislike me. I saved your life back there, and yet you couldn’t even bring yourself to thank me. Why?’
‘I resent everything you stand for,’ Bethlen says, his back still turned to me, his words laced with malice. ‘Why don’t you just go back to the kitchens – to that girl you’re always talking to?’
I look at him incredulously. ‘Everything I stand for? But you don’t even know me. And don’t drag Sabina into this.’
Bethlen smiles maliciously. ‘There’s no need to get defensive, whelp. And don’t worry about your precious little lady friend – I’ll remember to tell her that you died. Don’t worry about that. It will give me great pleasure to console her. Rest assured, I’ll give her all the care and love she needs.’
‘She’s just a friend,’ I say, nonetheless sickened by the mere thought of Bethlen going near Sabina. ‘What have I ever done to you?’
‘I know that you sauntered into our order carrying a letter of introduction.’ Bethlen snaps around and points an accusing finger at me. ‘And I’ve heard that you served under Generalissimo Montecuccoli. Wasn’t that commission good enough for you? Did you need to come here to show off your letter and make the rest of us feel like dirt?’
‘What? I don’t think you –’
‘People like you have had everything handed to you on silver platters,’ Bethlen interrupts, not allowing me a chance to explain myself. ‘I, on the other hand, have had to work hard to get to where I am. Whereas you’ve simply clicked your fingers and everything has been given to you, I’ve had to use my own cunning and brawn to earn my position. I never even knew who my father was. I was raised in Mannheim’s crime-infested alleyways. I’ve had to work – hard – my entire life to get where I am. And that, whelp, is why I dislike you and your French friend so much. You represent all that is wrong with this world, with its lucky few born into prestige and wealth, whilst the rest of us have to fight for the scraps from your table.’
He stalks off, leaving me stunned, staring at the empty space where he had been standing. For the first time in the past week, I feel genuine pity – rather than resentment – for Bethlen. But his animosity is misplaced. I’m not from an extremely wealthy family. Yes, my uncle and aunt are well-respected and wealthy by some standards, but they are certainly not landed gentry. My uncle has had to work hard his entire life to establish a reputation as a skilled farrier, and it has only been during the past ten years that he has started to reap the rewards of his labour. The only time I ever left Dresden was to accompany a family friend, Father Giuseppe Callumbro – a Benedictine monk who taught me how to read and write Italian and Latin – on a pilgrimage to Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. But I can’t tell Bethlen the truth about my past, or that I have no military experience. He’d report my deception to the Grand Hexenjäger, resulting in my immediate expulsion.
Bethlen and I are similar in more ways than he could begin to imagine. Had it not been for my uncle, who took me in after the death of my mother, I could have become Bethlen – a street-urchin, eking out a living by sleight of hand and cunning.
I’m drawn from my thoughts by Captain Faust, who comes over and inspects my wounds. He pats me on the shoulder, an unspoken acknowledgement of the role I played in the skirmish, then returns to the centre of the courtyard.
‘Five minutes, gentlemen,’ he announces. ‘Then we move again. And be on your guard. Those witches used transmutation spells to rise out of the ground. There’s no telling what we are going to run into.’
I pull out one of the wooden gunpowder containers attached to my bandolier and start to reload my pistol. But some morbid fascination compels me to glance at the first witch I slew. She’s lying in a crumpled heap over by the far wall. I don’t feel my stomach turn when I look at her. Nor do I feel any pity or remorse. There’s now just a cold emptiness within me. Perhaps I have the making of a witch hunter after all.
And it’s only now I recall that, when the witch emerged from the ground, one of her arms had been severed, leaving a bleeding stump. Someone – or something – had only recently cut it off.
I feel the skin crawl on the back of my neck. Some sixth sense warns me that something is not quite right.
‘We are missing something here,’ I say, drawing everyone’s attention. ‘These witches weren’t waiting in ambush. They were just as surprised to see us as we were to see them. One of them even bore a fresh wound, its arm having been severed. They were fleeing from something – something that put the fear of God into them.’
Von Frankenthal is standing guard in the shadows under the second portcullis. He looks like some behemoth guarding the gates of Hell. I can clearly understand why Armand has given him the nickname Revelation 6.8.
‘What?’ he says, his eyes narrowing with intrigue. ‘Are you suggesting there’s someone else in here? Fighting the witches?’
‘Well, if there is, it certainly makes our job a lot easier,’ Armand says. ‘But who do you think would …?’
‘Listen!’ von Frankenthal warns.
A sudden silence. We all look at von Frankenthal. There’s nothing at first. Then we all hear it: sounds of combat, coming from deep within the castle, so faint they can barely be heard. But we can distinguish musket fire and agonising screams.
After a minute or so, the sounds fade into a pervasive silence.
We exchange bewildered looks. What on earth is going on?
‘The Devil take us. Someone else is in here,’ Bethlen says.
I cast a suspicious eye at Bethlen. Maybe I’m wrong, but his surprised tone seemed feigned, almost as if he’s privy to some secret information. Nobody else seems to have noticed this, however, so I focus on the more pressing concern of trying to determine who else is in the castle.
Armand kneels by one of the slain witches and conducts a crude autopsy on the body in a vain attempt to determine who dealt the initial wounds. ‘Any guesses as to who it might be?’
‘Rather than that, we should ask ourselves what they are after,’ Captain Faust says.
Armand’s head snaps up. ‘The Scourge of Jericho! But surely not.’
‘What else would anybody be doing here?’ Captain Faust returns. ‘They have to be after the relic.’
‘But how would anybody other than the Hexenjäger know of the resting place of the trumpet?’ Armand questions. ‘We’ve only just learned of its location. Even if there were a spy within our order – which I pray to God there isn’t – there wouldn’t have been time to pass the information on to anybody else. We were dispatched from Burg Grimmheim only yesterday morning.’
‘We discovered the relic’s hiding place. That doesn’t mean that others haven’t,’ von Frankenthal says, tapping the hilt of his rapier in anticipation of combat, his tone as ominous as a death knell.
Searching for religious artefacts and selling holy relics has been an obsession of the Catholic Church since the Dark Ages. In medieval times an interested buyer could purchase anything from splinters from the True Cross and bones from Jesus’s fingers. Demand was greater than supply. Consequently, forgeries were rife. I once heard of a case in which two dozen ‘authentic’ Holy Grails were sold by the same monk, all from within the same market square, and all within three hours.
But the churches of Europe were determined to monopolise possession of authentic artefacts. And so, relic hunters wandered Christendom and the Holy Land. Some, consumed by religious fervour, were commissioned by the Church. Others were mercenaries who sold their treasure to the highest bidder. Irrespective of their motive, however, they were all skilful warriors and deadly opponents. And some of them still exist today, now all but relics of a former age, like the very treasure they seek.
‘My guess is either relic hunters or witch hunters,’ I say, as if I’m the experienced one who knows all about these matters; a regular authority on the subject. Normally I’d leave discussions of this nature to the professionals, but my confidence has been bolstered by the fact that I’ve dispatched three witches. ‘Klaus told me that a company of witch hunters was sent into these mountains last year. Perhaps another company has been sent to find what happened to them. Their search may have brought them here.’