by Stuart Daly
‘I think I’ve just worked that out,’ Armand says.
‘What?’
‘Come here. Show me your face. I just need to see the mark.’
I take three hesitant steps forward, allowing Armand to study the bruise. His eyes flash suddenly in recognition.
‘Look out the window, Jakob,’ he instructs. ‘Quickly. Tell me what you see.’
‘Wait. What are you up to?’ Blodklutt is suspicious, his pistol aimed at Armand.
‘Just let Jakob tell you what he sees in the courtyard.’ There’s an urgency in Armand’s voice, as if his life depends on it. ‘Now. Quickly!’
Blodklutt nods, and I move over to a window to look out over the inner courtyard. ‘I see the buildings,’ I say. ‘The rubble from the bomb. Captain Faust’s body.’
Then I realise what I’m supposed to see. But it’s not there.
The hairs almost shoot out of my skin. I turn and look at my companions.
‘There’s no sign of Klaus!’
‘You can’t see Klaus, because he never died,’ Armand warns.
I turn from the window and stare at Armand, struggling to comprehend this revelation.
‘But that can’t be possible. I saw him. He was dead!’ I say, the words blurting out of my mouth like water gushing through a burst dike. ‘He never survived the grenade blast. I saw the blood … his eyes.’
Armand shakes his head. ‘You thought he was dead. But he was only playing dead. It was all staged. The mark on your jaw reveals as much. You can’t see it, but it has developed into a unique bruise – a wolf’s head, to be precise; the exact same emblem that appears on the guard of Klaus’s rapier.’ He pauses, looks across at Lieutenant Blodklutt. ‘It’s no great mystery as to who shot me and punched Jakob unconscious. And it’s no great mystery as to who your spy is.’
The Lieutenant strides over to the window, checks for himself. He slams a clenched fist on the sill in frustration. He then comes over to me, grabs me by the chin, tilts my head and examines the mark on my jaw. The Lieutenant steps back, stunned. He’s wearing an expression like someone who’s just discovered they’ve been cheated out of their inheritance by some unknown relative.
Klaus. A spy! In league with the Brotherhood of the Cross.
This is all too much. I shake my head in disbelief. At least now I have an answer as to why, when I first woke in this room and tried to recall the events that had transpired in the corridor, I could not shake the image of a wolf from my mind. The wolf’s head, carved into the guard of Klaus’s rapier, was the last thing I had seen before being knocked unconscious.
‘Untie them,’ Lieutenant Blodklutt instructs me, trying to salvage what dignity he can from the situation.
I’ve only taken one step, when I hear the distinct click of a pistol being cocked.
‘You’ll stay where you are. And you’ll drop those weapons.’
I freeze in my tracks. I never thought I’d hear that voice again. Only this time, it sounds distinctly different, laced with malice.
I turn slowly and look towards the single doorway leading into the hall, where a figure emerges from the shadows. I don’t even have to see the man’s face to know that it’s Klaus Grimmelshausen.
An uneasy silence. The tension’s so great you can practically see beads of sweat form in the air.
‘Your weapons – drop them. Now!’
Lieutenant Blodklutt and I do as instructed. I start with my rapier, then my pistols and carbine. I place them on the ground, slowly, almost mechanically. I don’t want to make any hasty movements and give Klaus an excuse to discharge his pistol at me.
‘Now step back. Stop. That’s enough. Put your hands on your head.’
Again, we do as ordered. We’re not exactly in a position to do anything other than comply with his demands. Klaus has already shot Armand. I’m sure his next shot won’t just wound someone in the shoulder. It will more likely send one of us straight to a grave.
‘I’ve dreamed of this moment for some time,’ Klaus says. ‘But I never thought it was going to be this sweet. How ironic it is that you should learn of my deception only at the very moment I catch you at gunpoint.’
‘But why?’ Armand asks. ‘How could you betray us?’
‘Don’t look so shocked. This has been planned for over a year now.’
Von Frankenthal shakes his head in disgust. ‘So how much are they paying you? It must be a lot to make you turn traitor; to turn on the very order you have vowed to defend – to those who have treated you as a brother.’
‘Don’t talk to me of brotherhood. You who have so little understanding of what the term means.’ Klaus spits the words out as if he has bile in his mouth. ‘And don’t you dare accuse me of being a traitor. I’ve remained true to my calling for the past year, enduring the blasphemous actions of your order. I was never part of your order. I was sent to infiltrate the Hexenjäger – to oversee its destruction.’
Klaus snickers, seeing our foreheads crease in confusion. ‘Be careful who you call a traitor, for the only traitors in this room are the Habsburg scum who have betrayed God’s law. You are abominations in the eyes of our Lord. You are not even fit to walk this world. And I intend to set things right.’
‘You’re no better than those who hired you,’ I return, the feeling of betrayal overwhelming. ‘You’re no better than the Brotherhood of the Cross.’
‘You still don’t understand, do you?’ Klaus returns. ‘I am one of the Brotherhood of the Cross. I am the Holy Spirit.’
What? We stare dumbfounded at Klaus, struggling to comprehend this revelation. Then there’s a shuffle from someone behind me. Klaus’s pistol locks on the person faster than you can blink.
‘Don’t be a fool, Christian!’ Klaus warns, his voice dripping with venom. ‘But enough talk. Time to end this. Vengeance shall be mine.’
He steps into the room, moves over to the hearth where Leopold von Wolfenbüttel lies. He kneels down and places a finger on Leopold’s neck, searching for a pulse. Finding none, he rises to his feet again. All the while his eyes are locked on us.
Maybe it’s just that my perception of him has changed, but his eyes seem different. Perhaps it’s a trick played by the shadows, but I’m certain his eyes have changed from light blue to jet black. All that remains is pure hatred … and an unquenchable thirst for revenge.
This is not the man I knew. We are now staring face to face with the deadliest member of the Brotherhood of the Cross. And he intends to kill us all. I still can’t believe this is happening. I was grieving the man’s presumed death earlier today, and now I’m staring down the barrel of his pistol.
But we don’t have time to ponder how we’ve been fooled. We have to act fast. We might only have seconds before Klaus launches upon us. I pity Bethlen, though. With his hands bound, he doesn’t stand a chance. Klaus will tear into him like one of Hell’s furies. But as desperate as our situation is, we still have some cards hidden up our sleeves.
Firstly, Klaus has only one pistol, meaning he gets only one shot at us. Even if he shoots one of us, he will have to face the rest of us with his blade. That won’t be an easy task, particularly when he has to face Lieutenant Blodklutt and Armand.
Secondly, von Frankenthal’s hands are not bound, and Armand will be able to break free with minimal effort. As far as Klaus knows, both men’s wrists are tied, giving both von Frankenthal and Armand a vital element of surprise.
Thirdly, we have Robert outside, scanning the windows on the eastern side of the keep with his rifle. And, finally, I still have two weapons – my daggers – tucked into the folds of my boots. Although I’ve never thrown a dagger before, I’m sure that my attempt would at least momentarily distract Klaus, possibly granting my companions time to arm themselves.
And so the waiting game begins to see who will make the first move. Hell is about to break loose.
The standoff is unbearable. Seconds drag by so slowly it’s like watching a wound fester.
Sweat sta
rts to drip down my back and bead on my forehead. But I dare not wipe a sleeve against my brow. That simple move could be the match that ignites the powder keg and sends the room into chaos.
I catch Lieutenant Blodklutt in the corner of my eye. He looks as taut as an over-tightened violin string, his fingers twitching in nervous anticipation. But he knows that if he makes the first move he may become the target of Klaus’s pistol.
We all know this. And so we wait to see what Klaus does.
It’s at this critical point that Armand makes a last-ditch effort at diplomacy. He stands about as much a chance of succeeding in this as a highwayman who’s trying to sweet-talk his way out of a hangman’s noose. Still, I have to admire his spirit.
‘Klaus, my dear friend, we are all gentlemen here,’ he says. ‘Surely this can be resolved in some other fashion. Please, lower your pistol. Let our blades slumber in their scabbards. They have worked hard today. Let them enjoy their sleep.’
‘Be silent, French fop!’
Armand takes the rebuke graciously. He doesn’t even flinch. There’s too much at stake here.
‘Come now. That’s hardly conducive to resolving this slight hiccup.’ Armand’s even so bold as to take a step forward.
It’s the last step he’ll ever take. Not unless he can dodge pistol balls. For Klaus’s finger tightens on the trigger.
‘Armand! No!’ I call out, fearing he will be shot. I squint my eyes in anticipation of the pistol’s report, and I’m about to reach for one of the daggers concealed in my boots, when we hear a sound that makes our skin crawl.
It starts as a low murmur, like a distant moan. Even Klaus stays his trigger-finger. He casts about the room, fearful of what new terror the keep holds in store for us.
The sound gathers in momentum, gets louder, develops into a horrific wail that would make the lamentations of tortured souls in Purgatory sound like angels singing. Then, as suddenly as it started, the noise stops, leaving a deathly stillness.
‘What devilry is this?’ Klaus whispers, looking about the room.
‘I don’t know,’ Armand says. ‘But may I suggest a truce. Whatever made that noise, we stand a better chance against it together.’
Klaus doesn’t get a chance to respond. For no sooner have the words left Armand’s mouth than the portraits along the walls come to life.
My heart practically freezes with fright. Dear God, protect my soul!
Like a vision from a nightmare, the women in the paintings come alive, peeling themselves from the cracked canvases. There are over fifty of them, corresponding with the number of paintings on the walls. They are clad in clothing more ragged than century-old, threadbare burial shrouds. Their faces are wrinkled nightmares of hate and malice, and they give bloodcurdling screams that would make even the Devil’s skin crawl. They have eyes like drops of congealed blood, and their fingernails resemble rusted dagger blades, which they use to scale the walls and climb along the ceiling – upside down!
There’s no introduction needed to know which one is Countess Gretchen Kraus. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, she stands out like a diamond in a slush-bucket. She can’t be any older than twenty years of age, her skin as smooth as porcelain, her raven-black hair hanging in long tresses.
Not bad, considering she was born last century.
Whilst I’m rooted to the spot in fear, Blodklutt doesn’t waste a second. He’s already collected his weapons and moved over to free the other Hexenjäger. Rather than ready his blade, however, he produces the Malleus Maleficarum – the Hammer of the Witches – from its case. He then orders the rest of us to retrieve our weapons and form a protective circle around him in the centre of the room.
Doing as instructed, we form a protective ring of steel around Blodklutt. That is, of course, all of us but Klaus. He hasn’t moved and is cursing under his breath, staring with hatred at the witches.
‘Whatever happens,’ Armand calls out over the screeching mass of crones, ‘do not let any get through to the Lieutenant. There are too many witches for us to deal with, and we are going to need the magic of the Hammer of the Witches if we are to survive. So nothing gets past us. If Blodklutt falls, we all die.’ He points one of his sabres at the Holy Spirit. ‘Klaus – we are in need of your blade. We need to put our differences aside for the moment. You must join us and fight the common enemy. Believe me, I like this no better than you do. But we have no other choice.’
Klaus glares at Armand, his eyes blazing with hatred. ‘We get through this mess first,’ he snarls, his lips curled in distaste, and pushes in beside me. ‘Then I’ll kill you all!’
Not comfortable in having to fight alongside a man who has vowed to kill us, I grip my rapier, assume a defensive stance, and press in close between Armand and Klaus. I wish I had a pistol readied, but I used both against Kurt von Wolfenbüttel. And I don’t like my chances of getting them loaded right now.
The Countess’s voice rises over the demonic cacophony of her coven.
‘Let’s feast!’
The crones tear into us with a speed that leaves me gaping. Before I know what’s happening, the witches are screaming around the room like harpies, their claws slashing wildly, slicing through us like razors. This is comparable to standing in the centre of a rag and daggerladen tornado. In only a matter of seconds I’m bleeding from over a dozen fresh wounds. Fortunately they are not deep, but they are stinging like paper-cuts that have been doused in salt.
I strike back with my blade, but it’s impossible to land a hit. By the time you can distinguish a crone amidst the screeching storm, she’s disappeared into the whirl of movement. I feel as though I’m chasing shadows. I start slashing wildly, in the hope that one of the witches may end up skewering herself on my blade.
No sooner have I had the idea than – slice. There’s an agonised scream as a witch impales herself on my rapier. I try to free my blade, but the crone isn’t dead, my blade having only skewered the witch through the lower left-hand side of her torso. To my horror, she starts pulling herself along my rapier, her mouth wide open in preparation to set her rotted teeth into my flesh.
I move to give her a kick guaranteed to send her flying, but I’m distracted as something splatters on my hat. I snap my head up, dreading what I’m going to see, and look directly into the eyes of a witch, only inches from my face! She’s salivating gobs of drool and hanging from the ceiling by her feet like some horribly mutated bat. A spider-web of blue veins ripples under the cadaver-white flesh of her face, and she has breath that would send a sewer rat gagging.
Before I have time to react, her hands shoot out. They latch onto my head, and she forces me to stare into her bloodshot eyes.
‘Hello, Pretty,’ she cackles, her voice sounding like a rusted coach wheel.
‘Goodbye, Ugly!’ I scream back, horrified.
Then, in a desperate act, I momentarily hold on to my rapier with only one hand, and reach down to my boots, producing a dagger. I thrust upwards, aiming at the witch’s heart, intending to deliver a blow that will kill her instantly, and my ears are assailed by a bloodcurdling scream. The hag drops to the floor, writhing in pain, clutching the dagger buried in her chest, allowing me to turn and face the monstrosity that has now dragged itself along the length of my rapier.
I’m face to face with another crone. Veins writhe across her face like snakes. Her mouth is a gaping maw, spraying spittle. She pulls herself even closer in preparation to bite into me, revealing an eel-like, pus-infected tongue.
Aghast, I act instinctively, slamming a fist into the witch’s face, knocking her off my blade. She scrambles across the floor, nursing her injuries. And I lunge forward, my blade aimed at her heart.
But then the crone starts muttering something in a language that sounds like a dog gnawing on a bone. Before I know what’s happening, the muscles in my lower legs become unresponsive, beset by a numbing paralysis. The sensation shoots up my thighs, and within a matter of seconds I’m frozen stiff from the stomach down.
I try desperately to move my legs, to break free from the invisible restraints of the witch’s dark magic, but it’s useless. It feels as if I have been buried from the navel down in hardened lime mortar.
The witch smiles maliciously, knowing that I’m at her mercy. She regains her feet and brandishes her dagger-like fingernails, taunting me. She licks her tongue across her lips, savouring her anticipated kill.
Perhaps the inscription on the blade of my rapier has safeguarded the upper half of my body from the witch’s spell. While I can still wield my sword, it’s going to be impossible to mount an effective defence against her.
I have to try to break the spell. But I can’t get close enough to the hag to strike at her with my rapier. My only other option is to try to gain the remaining dagger tucked in the fold of my left boot. If only I can reach it, I might be able to throw it at her. But it’s impossible. With the lower half of my body frozen, I can’t even reach a hand down far enough to find my boot.
Overwhelmed by the hopelessness of my situation, I cry out for help. A quick look around the room reveals that I can’t rely upon my companions for assistance. Many of them are faring no better than I am.
Six yards or so off to my left, Bethlen has been dragged to the ground by three hags. He has one in a headlock, trapped under his left arm. But one of the remaining witches has her claws locked about his neck, squeezing with all her strength. It’s the third hag, however, who’s causing Bethlen the real problem. She’s grabbed him by the hair, and is pulling so hard you’d think she’s trying to pull a stump out of the ground. How she hasn’t ripped Bethlen’s scalp off is nothing short of a miracle.
Von Frankenthal is faring better than Bethlen. He’s already killed two witches, dragged them screaming out of the air. He snapped the neck of one with his bare hands, and turned the second into a pincushion with his blade. But he’s been wounded. His tabard and shirt have been torn open, revealing a savage cut across his chest. But the wound has only angered him, sent him into a rage. He looks as if he could harrow Hell.