The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  About the Book

  Darkness spreads. Evil rises. The Hexenjäger prepare for battle.

  The Watchers have roamed the earth for millennia, searching for the Tablet of Breaking. If they find it, they will destroy the world. Jakob and his witch hunter companions are sent on a mission to locate the relic before it falls into the hands of the four fallen angels.

  From the cliff-top monasteries of Meteora to a trap-riddled mausoleum lying at the bottom of the Dead Sea, the Hexenjäger must stay one step ahead of the fallen angels and their army of undead – for the cost of failure is Armageddon.

  An undead horde, a do-or-die mission, traps behind every door, immortal beings that will stop at nothing to end the world . . . Strap on your swords for one hell of a ride.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Maps

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part Two

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Three

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Epilogue

  Historical Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Witch Hunter Book One advert

  Witch Hunter Book Three advert

  Extract from Book 3: The Devil's Fire

  Imprint

  Drawing a deep breath to steady my nerves, I pull my cloak tight around my neck, place a trembling hand on the butt of one of the flintlock pistols tucked into my belt, and move deeper into the cemetery.

  There are tombstones all around me, rising out of the ground like broken teeth. There’s the odd crypt here and there, surrounded by crucifixes and statues of angels, saints and the Virgin Mary, keeping a silent vigil over the dead.

  All is blanketed in mist and darkness. All is deathly still.

  I can think of a million places I’d rather be right now. Even the witch-infested banquet hall at Schloss Kriegsberg would be preferable to this. But dark times call for dark work, and there isn’t much darker work than investigating exhumed graves in the dead of the night.

  Over the course of the past week three burials have taken place in this cemetery, only for the bodies to be exhumed overnight. This morning, a nightwatchman was found dead at the nearby church gates. The local parish priest sent a messenger to the Hexenjäger headquarters at Burg Grimmheim – which lies several hours by horse to the east – requesting our assistance. And so the Hexenjäger has been assigned to investigate the case.

  My companion on this mission is the Bavarian swordsman Wilhelm Friedsthorm, a veteran witch hunter with the savage look of a starving wolf. He’s stalking through the darkness a few yards over to my right, moving with such stealth and with his crimson tabard hidden beneath a dark grey cloak, that I can barely see him. If it were not for the occasional flash of moonlight on the blade of his drawn rapier and main gauche – a left-hand dagger often used by duellists to slit open the belly of an adversary, or to entangle an enemy’s blade within its elongated cross-guard – I would have lost track of him the instant we entered the cemetery.

  Conversely, the grey-haired, hunchbacked gravedigger I am trailing a few yards behind is making enough noise to wake the dead. We’ve only moved some fifty yards through the cemetery, and I’ve already had to caution him twice. If it were up to me, I would have left him back at the front gates, for some sixth sense warns me that we are not alone in the cemetery and that the criminal is already here, prowling through the night, determined to exhume another corpse. For that very reason we abandoned our lanterns at the cemetery gates and decided to proceed in darkness.

  Despite the amount of noise being made by the gravedigger, however, it is necessary for him to accompany us: he is our guide, directing us to the exhumed graves. The local parish priest was more than willing to nominate the gravedigger for the task. And so we have no option but to tolerate his presence.

  I cannot help but wonder who committed this crime. It was obviously someone with a powerful motive; someone prepared to risk being interrogated by the Catholic Church and face the wrath of the Inquisition.

  My initial thought was that the bodies had been exhumed by someone with an interest in studying human anatomy: possibly an artist, sculptor or physician. This assumption was based heavily upon the evidence that the bodies had only recently been buried. The headstones had not yet been erected. The culprit wanted fresh corpses – bodies that had not yet decomposed.

  I once read that artists such as Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, driven by their passion to develop a greater understanding of muscle and bone structure, had conducted autopsies on bodies they had stolen from graveyards. Of course, they had kept such activities secret. And rightly so, for the Church still considers such activities as heresy – an act punishable by being burned alive at the stake.

  If the bodies had been exhumed by artists, why did they dig up and steal three bodies? Surely one would suffice. And why risk bringing this to the attention of the Church? One body may have perhaps passed unnoticed. But three, all from the same cemetery – and within a week – is a different matter.

  Perhaps it wasn’t artists or physicians. Was it graverobbers? Not likely. They usually just steal the possessions that have been buried with the dead – not the corpses themselves. So who, then?

  With my thoughts focused on trying to determine who is responsible for this crime, I’m surprised by the gravedigger’s announcement that we have arrived at the desecrated graves. Following Wilhelm’s lead, the gravedigger and I crouch behind a tombstone, and spend a few minutes monitoring the cemetery, scouring the night for evidence of movement.

  The darkness betrays nothing.

  A signal from Wilhelm indicates that I’m to inspect the graves. I wonder if now would be a good time to remind him that I’ve only been in the Hexenjäger for just over a month. I was inducted as a fully fledged witch hunter only two weeks ago, as a reward for the role I played during the mission to Schloss Kriegsberg. But that doesn’t mean
that I’m experienced in the art of combat, and I often wonder if my fellow Hexenjäger now have higher expectations of me.

  This is only the second mission I have ever been sent on. It took me over two weeks to fully recover from the injuries I sustained whilst facing the witches, the Brotherhood of the Cross and the King’s Secret in Schloss Kriegsberg. Perhaps I might have recovered sooner had not my convalescence been interrupted by periods of sword training. I would have much preferred to have spent the fortnight resting, allowing my body to fully recover. But Armand Breteuil – the flamboyant ex-captain of Louis XIV’s Royal Palace Cavalry – had argued otherwise, insisting that it would only be a matter of time until I would be called into the field once more, and that I needed to develop greater confidence in the art of swordplay. So, having only had three days’ rest, Armand and I found ourselves engaged in a daily routine of crossing blades in the Hexenjäger training hall.

  Although I found it annoying at the time – with every muscle in my body screaming in protest – I could not be more grateful for Armand’s dogged persistence. One can hardly perfect the art of swordplay in one month, and I still have a long way to go before I can even begin to consider myself competent in the use of a rapier. But Armand has taught me valuable lessons that manuals cannot – ones that can only be taught by a veteran duellist experienced in close-quarters combat, such as how to use your cloak in your off-hand to ensnare an opponent’s blade, and how to turn a parry into a riposte guaranteed to unbalance even the most sure-footed of duellists.

  With the gravedigger and Wilhelm remaining hidden, I swallow back the ball of nerves in my throat, draw one of my rapiers and, with a pistol held at the ready, move over to investigate the desecrated graves. They are now just dark pits in the earth. So much for resting in peace for an eternity. These poor souls were dug up even before the earth had settled around them.

  And you don’t need to be a genius to tell me which grave is going to be targeted next. For, just off to the right, there is a burial that looks as if it took place earlier this morning, evident by the fresh earth and its absence of a headstone.

  I scurry back to my companions.

  ‘Can you remember who was buried here?’ I ask the gravedigger, trying to shed some light on the mystery.

  The gravedigger scratches his head, as if he’s trying to prod his brain into action. ‘The first three burials were for locals killed by a bloody flux that has swept through this area, but I can’t remember their names.’ He pauses as he takes another scratch. ‘And the burial that took place this morning was for a man who died over a week ago of natural causes. We had to keep the poor old wretch lying in the charnel house all that time as my assistant gravedigger has been ill. If I could have had my way, I’d still have all the bodies lying in the charnel house. It’s not easy digging a six-foot-deep grave, let alone three of them, at my age. But the parish priest insisted that I bury the three people killed by the flux for fear of an outbreak. It was only this morning that my assistant felt well enough to return to work, and we finally had a chance to put the old man to rest. I can’t remember his name, but he had the most peculiar birthmark on his forehead: it looked like an infant’s handprint.’

  My blood freezes at the mention of this.

  It would have been nice to have been given this information beforehand. For now I know that these are no acts of random desecration. These graves were deliberately targeted. I shift nervously. The plot has thickened like curdled milk. And it smells just as foul.

  There had once been a man named Andreas Rundst, who lived for some time in Dresden, the town in which I grew up. He had the most remarkable birthmark in the form of a small handprint on his forehead. He had sought my uncle’s assistance a while back – something concerning a horse that had gone lame, as far as I can recall. But I don’t think there was anybody in Dresden nine years ago who hadn’t heard about the man. Although I was only seven at the time, he was often the topic of discussion around my uncle’s dinner table, and I have a solid recollection of the mystery surrounding his life.

  Andreas is – or, rather, was – an apothecary who reputedly possessed the power of divination: a prophet who could see into the future. As such, he enjoyed the patronage of Dresden’s nobility – until he came to the attention of the Church. He endured several weeks of interrogation before he was finally released. A very lucky man, to say the least. And smart, too, for he concealed his prophecies in cryptic verses that were open to multiple interpretations. But their true meaning was kept secret, ultimately saving him from the Inquisition.

  It was many years ago, however, that I learned something about Andreas that would haunt my sleep for years to come. Deep in the dead of a cold winter’s night, I had been woken from my sleep by voices in the common room. I had crept into the adjoining kitchen and, spying through the doorway, saw my uncle engaged in a hushed conversation with Father Giuseppe Callumbro, with whom both my uncle and Andreas were intimate friends. Withdrawing into the kitchen, I trained an ear on their conversation, and it did not take me long to learn that Father Callumbro had come to seek my uncle’s advice on a matter of the gravest importance. He informed my uncle that he had been approached by Andreas on the steps of his church that morning. Andreas said he had had a horrific vision in which he had seen thousands dying of plague and war, and entire kingdoms engulfed in blazing infernos and swamped by cataclysmic floods.

  He had witnessed what no mere mortal should have ever seen. He had witnessed the end of the world – Armageddon! But Andreas’s vision had also revealed that these events would only come to pass if an ancient device – known as the Tablet of Breaking – was activated. This device had been hidden from mankind for thousands of years, that it had passed into the hazy realm of myth and legend. But Andreas’s vision had scraped away several millennia of sand and dust from that which should have remained hidden from the memory of man. For his vision revealed the secret location of the Tablet of Breaking.

  Although Andreas had informed Father Callumbro of his vision, he never revealed the secret resting place of the Tablet. Andreas had told Father Callumbro that he could not even trust him – one of his oldest and dearest friends – with such a dangerous secret. It would mean the end of the world if this knowledge were to fall into the wrong hands. And so, he vowed that he would take the secret with him to his grave. He had then left in a terrible state, rambling like a person who had lost leave of their senses.

  The meeting with Andreas had left Father Callumbro in a dilemma, and he had come to seek my uncle’s advice. He was torn between his desire to keep Andreas’s vision to himself and thus not betray his friend’s trust, and his belief that such a secret needed to be reported to the Church immediately, knowing that this would result in Andreas being investigated by the Inquisition again. After discussing the matter late into the night, Father Callumbro decided to follow my uncle’s advice and report the incident. Having assured my uncle he would not reveal to the Church that he had sought his advice – hence clearing my uncle of any possible connection with Andreas’s vision, which the Inquisition was sure to investigate – Father Callumbro had left.

  He reported the incident the following morning. The Church officials arrived in Dresden three days later, but by that time Andreas had disappeared from the city. He was never seen again.

  Until today, in this cemetery on the outskirts of Wurzen.

  And it looks to me as if somebody has taken Andreas’s vow literally – dug up the graves in an attempt to find the prophet’s resting place and discover what secrets were buried with him.

  Someone has tried to find the secret to the end of the world.

  I knew there was going to be more to this case than I had been told, but I wasn’t expecting this. I cannot help but feel that it is no mere coincidence that, out of all the available Hexenjäger, I was one of only two chosen to investigate the exhumed graves. I firmly believe that the Lord’s hand gui
ded me to join the Hexenjäger, guided me to meet Armand Breteuil, who, in turn, introduced me to Dietrich Hommel, the sole person who has been able to provide me with information concerning my father’s life. I do not know what the Lord’s design is for me, but the events of the past month have steered me along a certain path, all leading to this point in time – to Andreas Rundst’s grave.

  ‘I need you to do something for me,’ I whisper to the gravedigger. ‘I need you to go back into Wurzen and find the nightwatchmen. Tell them to gather as many men as they can. Then they need to get here – fast!’

  The gravedigger digests this for a while, almost as if he’s sampling some food he’s not too sure about. ‘I can manage that,’ he says finally.

  ‘Good. Now go! I need you back here as fast as your legs can carry you.’

  As the gravedigger shuffles off into the darkness, I gesture for Wilhelm to come close and whisper into his ear all that I know of Andreas Rundst. I warn him that the graves are being exhumed by somebody hoping to find Andreas’s body and discover clues that will reveal the secret hiding place of the Tablet of Breaking, and that we must do everything within our power to stop this from happening.

  Hunched in the darkness behind the tombstones, we have one final check of our weapons. Then we begin our silent vigil, scanning the graveyard for evidence of movement.

  In nervous anticipation I finger the wolf’s-head cross-guard of my drawn Solingen rapier. This will be the first time I will use this blade in combat, having acquired it only four weeks ago from one of the Brotherhood of the Cross. But I haven’t abandoned my trusty Pappenheimer rapier. It’s sheathed by my side, enjoying its peaceful slumber before it may be called into action. I never thought that I would turn into a dual wielder. It’s a very difficult fighting style to master; unconventional, to say the least, but deadly effective. In an age dominated by swordsmen who are masters of fighting with rapier and cape, or rapier and main gauche, it’s important to seize any advantage over your opponent. And having seen Armand Breteuil wield his dual cavalry sabres in Schloss Kriegsberg, I’m determined to master the technique. Even under Armand’s tutelage, however, it’s proving to be a difficult undertaking. But practice makes perfect, and I’m a fast learner in the art of swordplay – or so, at least, Armand tells me. Perhaps this night might even mark the christening of my dual blade technique.