by Stuart Daly
I shake my head, and try to the best of my ability to bandage the cut on my left forearm with a strip of cloth torn from my tabard. ‘Nothing that a few days of rest won’t heal. Yourself?’
‘As bruised and battered as Hell. But I’ll live. I wonder if the others were as lucky.’
It’s hardly surprising that von Frankenthal should survive the blast. Like a medieval stronghold, he was built to last.
I can’t understand, however, why the Marquis de Beynac sent an ignited powder keg down into the tunnel. That the tunnel roof didn’t collapse is nothing short of a miracle. And if it had, how then would have the Marquis been able to locate our bodies to recover the trumpet he must assume is in our possession? Not exactly the brightest idea he could have come up with. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and he must have feared that we were going to escape with the trumpet. He must have reasoned that it was better to kill us and risk burying the Scourge of Jericho under several tonnes of stone, rather than risk having the relic remain in our possession.
Again, I find myself wondering how von Frankenthal and I managed to survive the explosion. My ears are still ringing – as I imagine they will be for some time. That was the biggest explosion I’ve ever seen. I imagine that a powder keg detonated out in the open would wreak a lot of damage. But to experience one being detonated within the confines of a tunnel, where its destructive power is magnified tenfold, is like having a volcano erupt under you. I can’t believe it didn’t bring down the passage.
It looks as if I’ve spoken too soon. For no sooner have I had that thought than we hear it – a low rumble, coming from back down the tunnel. The sound of hundreds of tonnes of stone loosened by the explosion. Ready to collapse at any moment.
‘That can’t be good,’ I warn.
But von Frankenthal doesn’t even hear me. He clambers to his feet, dragging me up after him. Then we are racing for our lives again, hurtling blindly down the tunnel, trying to put as much distance between ourselves and the area of the tunnel damaged by the explosion.
We have barely covered a few yards before we hear a heavy crash from behind. It sounds as if the entire tunnel roof has collapsed where the immediate explosion took place. But then – to my horror – I hear the low rumble start again. Only this time, it’s spreading outwards from the area of the initial collapse. The roof of the tunnel starts to cave in, dropping massive chunks of bone-shattering stone, in a line heading straight towards us!
We race through the dark with all the speed we can muster, careening off each other into the tunnel walls. Our laboured breath wheezes through our lungs, and von Frankenthal is cursing so much he’d better hope that Heaven is turning a deaf ear. And then there’s the terrifying crash of stone following from behind, getting closer with each passing second.
It’s impossible to tell how far we race through the darkness, but we must have at least covered fifty yards before we hear panicked voices up ahead. A few more strides and we reach our companions, only to find them trapped at the end of the tunnel – their escape blocked by what feels to be a heavy, iron-ribbed wooden door.
‘It looks like our race is run,’ Armand says, struggling against the lock with what I can only assume is a dagger. ‘We can’t break through.’
There’s no stopping von Frankenthal, however. He orders us aside, and moves back several yards, giving himself room for a run-up. Then, with a roar that rivals the sound of the collapsing roof, he charges at the door, setting his massive shoulder against it.
There’s a terrific CRUNCH, followed instantly by the sound of splintering wood and bending metal. A blinding light fills the tunnel as the door collapses. Not missing a beat, we shield our eyes against the afternoon sun and dive out of the passage. We make it just in the nick of time. For no sooner have we exited the tunnel than the roof comes crashing down behind us – like the jaws of some giant mythological creature – engulfing us in a cloud of dust and rubble.
I lie on my back for several minutes, staring up at the clouds, vaguely aware that I’m lying on a forested slope, somewhere beyond the perimeter of cleared ground that surrounds Schloss Kriegsberg. But all that really matters for the moment is that we survived the collapsing tunnel. Drawing back some deep breaths, I savour the fresh air, and marvel at a great irony of life – how this moment of peace can exist only a heartbeat away from the jaws of death.
‘That was too close for comfort,’ Armand says, stirring by my side, breaking the silence.
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ I say, and push myself up onto an elbow, wincing with the effort. ‘Talk about scaring the life out of me. I feel as though I’ve aged fifty years.’
Armand smirks. ‘Well, my dear lad, you’re lucky there’s no mirror handy.’
‘Believe me – you’re in no position to talk,’ I return.
I can’t believe the state we’re in. You’d hardly suspect we are members of an elite Catholic military order. We look more like a procession of destitute street urchins who have escaped from a torture chamber. There’s barely an inch of our clothing not torn or caked in blood and dirt.
‘Let’s leave the banter for later,’ Blodklutt says, dusting himself off. He starts to reload his pistol; a sombre reminder that we aren’t safe just yet. ‘We’ve still got to get out of these mountains. With any luck, the Marquis de Beynac will think we never made it out of there alive. Let’s make sure he believes that’s the case. We’ll make for the horses and disappear from these cursed mountains forever.’
‘I’m all for that,’ von Frankenthal says.
Lieutenant Blodklutt offers me a hand and hoists me to my feet. ‘Then let’s get out of here. Robert – you lead. Christian – you’ll bring up the rear. And keep your wits about you. The Marquis de Beynac may have men patrolling the perimeter of the castle.’
We descend into the woods, but I can’t help glancing over my shoulder at Schloss Kriegsberg, its walls and towers visible through breaks in the trees. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here – that was the inscription scrawled on the gatehouse portcullis; words which are now etched in my mind. It was a warning that should not have been taken lightly, for this is a place where only devils dare to tread. How we ever managed to survive the horrors of the castle I’ll never know. The mission was my baptism by fire. I was thrown headfirst into the crucible of combat. Not only did it test my ability with a sword and pistol, but also my resolve, loyalties, and values I hold dear to my heart. Fortunately, I have been able to emerge from the castle without having compromised any of those values.
I’ve taken my first few dangerous steps into the world of a witch hunter. As dangerous as this job is, however, I know I have performed deeds of great good today. I have wielded my blade in the name of Christ, defending all that is sacred against Satan’s forces. I truly believe that not only have I proven my worth to my companions, and earned my place within the Hexenjäger, but I have found my calling. Ever since I can remember, I have dreamed of following in the footsteps of my father and wielding a blade in epic battles. Up until one week ago, the only way I could fulfil this dream was through reading the books in my uncle’s study and fantasising about what it would be like to enter battle. But now I feel as one with the spirit of my father, and I picture him as an older version of myself, grizzled and scarred by years of war, guiding his mount along a dusty trail, somewhere in the war-ravaged Low Countries over a decade ago.
Five minutes later we reach the clearing where our horses are tethered. We spare a few minutes tending our wounds, applying makeshift bandages and salves, and drinking heavily from the water-skins slung over our saddles. Lieutenant Blodklutt then gives the command for us to mount, and after paying one final look at Schloss Kriegsberg, I guide my horse out of the clearing. Following behind my companions, and with Armand riding by my side, I steer my horse along the forest trail leading down the slope of the mountain. And so we begin the long journey back to the Hexenjäger barracks at Burg Grimmheim.
It is mid-afternoon as
I make my way across the central courtyard in Burg Grimmheim. Two days have passed since our return, and I’m more than grateful for the opportunity to recuperate and recover from the mission to Schloss Kriegsberg. My shoulder is still bandaged, as it will be for several more days, my jaw sports a nasty bruise, and I’m covered in dozens of minor abrasions. But my wounds are nothing that rest won’t heal. I’m just thankful to be secure within the heavy stone walls of Burg Grimmheim, alive and safe from the horrors that haunt the Harz Mountains.
I have just come out of a formal meeting with Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel. Armand and von Frankenthal are waiting for me in a colonnaded walkway on the opposite side of the courtyard, and they hasten over to me, expectant looks on their faces.
Armand, bandaged from head to toe, is barely able to contain his excitement. ‘So are you going to tell us how you went? Please, Jakob, the suspense is killing us.’
‘You were in there for quite some time,’ von Frankenthal adds. ‘It’s not very often that the Grand Hexenjäger requests private meetings with the rank and file, particularly initiates. He must have had some important things to discuss with you.’
‘He did,’ I say, ‘and it’s going to take some time for it to sink in.’
Armand’s eyes arch inquisitively. ‘Take some time for what to sink in?’
‘Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel told me that he’s finally had time to read Lieutenant Blodklutt’s report on the mission,’ I explain. ‘He wanted to personally commend me on the role I played. I was only selected as part of the team because, as a new initiate, I could not have been the spy he wished to flush out. Put simply, he knew that Captain Faust and Lieutenant Blodklutt would be able to put their trust in me. But he also feared, given the perilous nature of the mission, that I would not survive.’
I pause, building up the suspense, much to Armand’s annoyance, who is hanging off my every word. He makes an exasperated gesture and says, ‘And?’
‘Not only was he surprised that I wasn’t killed, but, having read Blodklutt’s report, he is amazed at the role I played in the mission,’ I continue. ‘According to him, an initiate has never before demonstrated such bravery and resourcefulness. He even went so far as to say that the success of the mission was largely due to me. And, in gratitude for my bravery, he has granted me special dispensation. There is going to be an induction ceremony held a week from today. I am going to be formally accepted as a witch hunter within the Hexenjäger.’
Armand extends a hand in congratulations, and von Frankenthal, barely able to control his enthusiasm, pats me so hard on the back that I’m practically knocked off my feet.
As much as I want to wear the crimson tabard and cape of the Hexenjäger, however, I am apprehensive about being inducted into the order. I had initially harboured fears that the Grand Hexenjäger had somehow learned that my letter of introduction was fake – and that was why he had requested a special meeting. Although this was not the case, I know that I was extremely lucky to have survived Schloss Kriegsberg. I have been given barely any training in the art of slaying witches. I have literally had to learn from experience. But my experience is so limited, and I fear that I might now find myself being sent on dangerous missions, and that my fellow Hexenjäger may have far higher expectations of me.
‘Welcome to the order, brother-in-arms,’ von Frankenthal smiles, his eyes beaming with pride.
‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Well done, Jakob,’ Armand says, elated. ‘I suppose some sort of celebration is called for. What say you? We’ll meet in my quarters for dinner?’
‘That sounds good,’ I say. ‘I must admit, though, I still can’t believe that this has happened. It’s going to take some time to register.’
Von Frankenthal scratches his chin in thought. ‘Actually, now that you’ve brought it to my attention, I’ve never heard of anyone rising so quickly in the ranks of the Hexenjäger. It’s unprecedented. The normal timeframe for an initiate to become a proper witch hunter can range from six to twelve months.’
‘Did I not say that you had found your calling?’ Armand says proudly. ‘After your first encounter with the witches – during which you slew three of their number – I knew that there was something special about you. No raw initiate has ever before demonstrated such fighting prowess – not even Captain Alejandro de la Cruz. It came as no great surprise to me to learn that your father had been a professional soldier. I also knew that your father’s blood – the blood of a warrior – ran thick in your veins. Which reminds me, I have another surprise for you. So if you will, follow me.’
I bid farewell to von Frankenthal and, following after Armand, cross the courtyard. We enter a long single-storey building positioned on the southern side of the courtyard, its back adjoining the southern perimeter wall of the castle. Spanning off the central corridor of this building are some twenty or so private quarters. Armand directs me to the fifth door on the right, knocks, then ushers me inside.
There’s a witch hunter sitting at a solitary desk in the far corner. He’s puffing on a pipe, having a quiet moment of reflection as he looks out onto the courtyard through his drawn window.
‘Dietrich Hommel, may I introduce Jakob von Drachenfels,’ Armand announces. ‘I don’t know if you can remember, Jakob, but I told you that Dietrich had served in the Low Countries some ten years ago. Well, as chance would have it, he not only served in the same company as your father, but he was also one of his closest friends.’
‘What?’ I stammer, struggling to comprehend this revelation – that I have finally found the long-lost piece of the puzzle that will reveal the truth about my father.
‘You will no doubt want some privacy. You have much to talk about,’ Armand says, and patting me on the shoulder, exits the room.
‘It is easy to see that you are your father’s son,’ Dietrich begins, studying my features. ‘You have the same eyes, sharp and alert. But, please, take a seat. As Armand has said, we have much to discuss. I imagine you will have many questions.’
I pull up a seat opposite Dietrich, speechless. I have been searching for clues about my father for my entire life. But all I’ve ever been able to find are mere snippets of information, elusive fragments from a larger picture – a picture which, to this day, has managed to remain hidden.
I shake my head, struggling to comprehend that this is actually happening. ‘I have many questions – so many, in fact, that I don’t know where to begin.’
Dietrich smiles softly. ‘Then let us start from the beginning, from when I first met Tobias – your father – in Aachen. It was a long time ago – over twenty years ago, in fact. Despite that, I can clearly recall the first time I ever set eyes on him. Although he was only one of several hundred soldiers who had assembled in the town square to volunteer their swords to suppress a Protestant uprising in Thuringia, he stood out from the crowd. He wasn’t an officer at the time, but he had a commanding presence. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, people listened. And it was during the suppression of that uprising that your father and I forged a friendship that would last for almost a decade.’
‘I know that he was a cavalry commander in the Low Countries,’ I say, eager to learn as much as I can. ‘But what did he do before that? Do you know anything of his past – anything of his life before you met him in Aachen? Do you know, for instance, how he met my mother?’
Dietrich smiles and raises a hand, signalling for me to slow down. ‘There’s no rush. We have as long as you need.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve waited so long to learn these things.’
‘And I will tell you all that I can. But let’s just slow things down a little, shall we?’ Dietrich says, his eyes becoming distant, his thoughts drifting back to events over two decades ago. He takes a long draw of his pipe before proceeding. ‘It is fortunate for you that Tobias told me much about his past. I remember him telling me that he had travelled to England and fought as a mercenary for the Royalist forces during the English Civil
War. During this campaign, serving in one of Prince Maurice’s regiments of horse, he learned the cavalry tactics that he would later employ as a commander of horse in the Low Countries. But it wasn’t until Tobias returned to the German states that he met Sophie – who would later become your mother – in his childhood town of Bremen.’
‘Bremen?’ I say, my eyebrows arched in curiosity. ‘I never knew that.’
‘He lived there until the age of fifteen, if I remember correctly.’
‘And why did he leave?’
‘Tobias once told me that he left home at such a young age in order to see the world, and to seek fame and glory in the army,’ Dietrich explains. ‘But back to Bremen – after a brief attempt at hanging up his sword he returned to the life of a professional soldier. It was during this time that I met your father in Aachen. Having become as close as brothers, we ventured into Spain as swords for hire, and found work in Castile in the service of the Count of Seville. Tobias was always torn between the instinctive call of a soldier and his love for Sophie, though. He returned to Bremen and tried to settle down. He and Sophie were married, and you were born.’
‘And you actually met my mother?’ I ask.
Dietrich smiles fondly. ‘Yes, although only briefly. Although I wasn’t present at the time of your parents’ wedding – for I was still serving in Castile – I came to visit your father shortly after your birth. Sophie was a kind and gentle woman, and she loved you dearly.’ He pauses as he takes another puff of his pipe. ‘Having stayed with your parents for a few weeks, I returned to Castile. But family life did not agree with Tobias. He became restless, finding domestic life too quiet. Finally, unable to suppress the call of the warrior, he returned to join me in Castile, where we were awarded commissions as officers of horse. He then spent the remaining years of his life fighting alongside me in the Spanish Netherlands against the French, who we were at war with at the time, until he was killed in a skirmish at Breda – or, at least, it was assumed that he had been killed.’