by Stuart Daly
‘I saw him this morning,’ Sabina explains. ‘I was coming out of the kitchens to see what the commotion was about, when I saw a dozen or so witch hunters race across the central courtyard hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Honestly, you’d think they had never seen a woman before, the way they were carrying on. And then there was Armand, having pulled up Francesca in the corridor leading off to the stables. He just came straight out and asked her what her name was, where she came from, and if she wouldn’t mind spending the rest of her life with him. Honestly! That Frenchman can be so impertinent at times.’ She looks casually around my room. ‘So . . . is she accompanying you?’
‘Yes,’ I say hesitantly, uncertain of what answer I should give and amused at how threatened Sabina is by Francesca.
‘Well, steer clear of her,’ Sabina says abruptly, looking at me squarely. ‘She has shifty eyes. I wouldn’t trust her.’ She then smiles sweetly, looks over at the weapons I have laid on my bed, and runs a finger absently over the cross-guard of my Pappenheimer rapier. As if only suddenly aware of what she is doing, she catches herself and withdraws her hand, almost as if she has touched a snake. She shifts uncomfortably away from the weapons, and her eyes narrow with concern. ‘Promise me you’ll be careful.’
I smile sadly, knowing that I cannot make such a promise. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘No, don’t say that,’ Sabina says, shaking her head and looking up at me, forcing me to return her stare. ‘I want you to promise me. Promise me that you will be careful.’
I return her gaze, moved by the genuine concern in her large brown eyes. ‘I promise.’
For a while she merely stares at me, almost as if making a mental picture of my face. Sabina then rises and says, ‘Come home in one piece, Jakob. I’m going to miss you.’
She leaves my quarters, and I stare at the open doorway. From the very first day I met Sabina, I knew that we were going to become close friends. She has a warm smile and a contagious laughter that I find adorable. But she also has a feistiness of spirit that I find just as appealing. Not afraid to voice her opinions, she runs her section of the kitchen with military authority, at times berating and herding away witch hunters who I wouldn’t even dare look sideways at. I take great comfort in knowing that she will be waiting for me upon my return from this mission – that is, I find myself thinking ominously, my eyes drifting to the weapons assembled on my bed, if I do return.
I wonder if the same fate that befell Wilhelm awaits me. His body had been brought back to Burg Grimmheim and buried in a small cemetery on a hill overlooking the castle. Yesterday I spent some time sitting by his grave, wondering why he – a veteran Hexenjäger – had been killed, while I somehow survived. It would have bolstered my confidence had my survival been due to my own skill with a sword. But had not the nightwatchmen arrived and distracted the Watcher, I’m sure I’d be lying in a plot of earth beside Wilhelm.
The entire incident has been a harsh reminder of how inexperienced I am in hunting Satan’s forces. I may wear the crimson attire of a witch hunter and train regularly in swordplay with Armand, but I still have a long way to go before I can consider myself competent. Until then, it’s best I keep my head down and leave the fighting to more experienced witch hunters. This might not be as easy as it seems, considering the perilous nature of the mission to which I have been assigned. Having witnessed what happened to Wilhelm, I don’t think even the seasoned fighters on the team may be effective in fighting the Watchers, should we encounter them again. The Grand Hexenjäger had said that this mission will be a treasure hunt, but looking across at my weapons – none of which are capable of slaying the Watchers – I have a terrible premonition that a lot of blood will be spilt before we discover the Tablet of Breaking. And I fear a lot of the blood will be ours.
A storm the likes of which I haven’t seen in many years rages above. The howling winds and torrential rain are doing about as much to lift my spirits as being forced to attend a blasphemous Lutheran church service. Particularly when we’re preparing to climb up to the cliff-top Monastery of Varlaam.
We arrived in Greece two days ago, and only arrived at the rocks of Meteora this morning. An impressive sight, to say the least. The Meteora complex consists of a series of precipitous rocks tucked into the foothills of the mountains of central Greece, soaring hundreds of yards high into the sky, seemingly trying to reach the heavens; hence their attraction to hermits and monks, who, since the tenth century AD, have crowned the rocks with monasteries in an attempt to be closer to God. Why they weren’t content to simply pray in a church at ground level, I’ll never know, but each to their own.
In addition to Friedrich Geist, Hans Wallanstein, Francesca Cannavaro, Armand and I, our team includes three of the toughest soldiers I have ever seen. All veteran members of the Milites Christi, even Hell had best watch out when it sees these three coming.
There’s Reinhold Mordghast, his teeth so black and chipped they look like shards of charcoal. He carries a blunderbuss slung over a shoulder, and uses language that could fell an ox.
Then there is Lieutenant Kuno von Konigsmarck, second-in-command of our mission. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and has the hardened eyes of someone who is no stranger to the hiss of drawn steel. They say he turns fights into bloodbaths. Despite this, he is quite articulate, and is the only member of the Milites Christi who has made any effort to befriend Armand and me.
Conversely, the final member of our team – the Spaniard, Diego Alvarez – has his features locked in a permanent sneer. His face bears the signature of an enemy’s blade in the form of a pearl-grey scar running down the left side of his face. I very much doubt a woman gave birth to him; he was more likely fashioned on a weapon-smith’s anvil. Apparently he’s the best swordsman in the Milites Christi – a veritable master of the blade. The cup-hilt rapier jostling by his side is his preferred instrument of death, and he wields it with blinding speed.
We left the eastern borders of the Holy Roman Empire over two weeks ago, and have been travelling through the western-most territories of the Turkish Ottoman Empire. The world’s largest known empire, it stretches all the way from Mecca to the forests of Hungary, and controls much of the Mediterranean Sea and the northern coast of Africa.
Although Christianity is tolerated in lands under Ottoman rule, and the recent treaty negotiated after the Battle of St Gotthard has brought a temporary cessation to hostilities between the Ottoman and Holy Roman Empires, a group of Catholic soldiers and witch hunters decked out in the cassocks and tabards of their respective military orders would draw too much unwanted attention. Indeed, we would more than likely be arrested as spies, accused of trying to gather information on the size and deployment of the Sultan’s forces, or to suppress Ottoman-supported Protestant rebels in the borderlands of western Hungary. And so, much to Armand’s annoyance, we are wearing clothing typically worn by Hungarian merchants: loose-fitting breeches, wide-sleeved cotton shirts and flared hip-length coats. The only visible indicators that we are from the Habsburg Empire are the European blades jostling by our sides. Dressed as such, and avoiding large townships, we have travelled largely unhindered through Hungary and Greece, guiding our mounts along back roads and travelling much by night. And now, finally, we have arrived at our destination – the cliff-top monasteries of Meteora.
The trip to Meteora has been a lengthy side-trip on our way to Sodom, somewhat out of the way from the Dead Sea, but necessary – actually, vital – if we are to acquire the Blades of Gabriel: seven silver daggers, allegedly fashioned in Heaven’s forges by the Archangel Gabriel, then handed down to man. They were kept for thousands of years in secret locations throughout the Holy Land, only to be relocated during the Crusades to the mountain-top Monastery of Varlaam, where they have been guarded by a secret order of warrior monks for the past four centuries.
Seven daggers of immense power. The only weapons that can kill the Watchers!
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We have pulled up our horses at the base of the two-hundred-yard-high rock on which the Monastery of Varlaam sits. Access to the monastery is by one of only two means: a system of rope-ladders, climbing their way up the sheer rock face; or a net, which is attached to a winch in an overhanging room high above in the monastery, and hauled up by monks using a windlass.
Not much of a choice, if you ask me. Both promise a quick death, particularly in this weather. I’m dreading the thought of climbing the ladders. The wind is so strong it will more than likely rip us from the slick rock face.
I doubt the net’s going to be much of a safer option. I don’t like the idea of putting my life in the hands of some monks I don’t even know. And if they don’t drop us to our deaths, I’m sure the heavy wind will slam us into the cliff.
We dismount at the base of the rock, and it’s whilst we are preparing our weapons that Armand draws attention to the sword sheathed by Francesca’s side, which he’s been eyeing for the past few days. The sword has a curved blade and disc-shaped pommel.
‘That’s a very unusual sword you’ve got there,’ he remarks. ‘I’ve never seen its like.’
‘It’s a talwar,’ Francesca says. ‘I picked it up in India last year, when I was part of a team sent to explore the tomb of an ancient ruler. It’s a slashing blade, capable of taking off a man’s head with a single stroke.’
Armand arches an eyebrow in question, seemingly sceptical that Francesca has ever put the blade to such use. ‘With a single stroke, you say. Impressive. Although, it looks quite cumbersome. I don’t think many men would be able to wield it for very long, let alone –’
‘A woman?’ Francesca interrupts and looks Armand up and down, as if assessing what right he has to question her talent with a sword. ‘It’s no heavier than those cavalry sabres you carry.’
‘They are heavy, I admit that. But I know how to use them.’
Francesca’s eyes narrow. ‘You doubt that I can wield a talwar. I may not be as trained in the art of swordplay as you, but I can hold my own quite comfortably. If you don’t believe me, then perhaps I should demonstrate my proficiency with it by taking off your head.’
Armand raises his hands in mock submission and laughs dismissively. ‘There’s no need to get defensive. I was merely making an observation.’
Francesca smiles coldly in return. ‘And I was merely telling you what happens to obnoxious Frenchmen who let their tongues wag as freely as dogs’ tails.’
Suppressing a smirk, I try to look occupied over by my horse, but watch them through the corner of my eye. This banter between the two has been going on for over a week now, with Armand, somewhat offended by Francesca’s cold indifference towards his initial advances during the first few days’ travel, resorting to mockery as a means of drawing her attention. I’m sure Armand’s intentions are playful and there is no malice intended in his remarks. But Francesca, in spite of her confident manner, cannot help but take the bait; hence encouraging Armand to continue toying with her.
‘What’s that?’ Armand asks, pointing at an unusual crossbow she has only now produced, the weapon having been previously strapped to the side of her mount, concealed within a protective leather cover.
Lifting the crossbow to rest against her shoulder, Francesca places her free hand on her hip and considers Armand for a while, expecting some curt comment to follow. When none is forthcoming, and she is convinced that Armand is actually interested in the weapon, Francesca holds it out for display. ‘This is a repeating crossbow.’
‘A what?’
‘A repeating crossbow. It was discovered by a fellow Custodiatti some years back at a burial site in Hubei, a province in China,’ Francesca explains. ‘And it’s quite different from a conventional European crossbow. It is loaded with a magazine containing ten bolts.’ She points at a lever at the rear of the weapon. ‘By simply working this lever back and forth, I can shoot all ten bolts in a matter of seconds. It’s very effective against large groups.’
Armand raises an eyebrow. ‘I bet it is. But what’s its effective range?’
‘At least seventy yards – far more effective than those flintlock pistols you place such great faith in. How far can they shoot? Ten yards? And then you have to spend a minute reloading them.’
‘But how long does that take to reload?’
Francesca shrugs casually and points at a leather pouch strapped by her side. ‘Only as long as it takes for me to reach in here, pull out a stack of bolts, insert them into the magazine, and release the string tying the bolts together. Like the pistol balls you and the Milites Christi use, the head of each bolt has been dipped in holy water, making them effective against the wraiths and spectres we often encounter in tombs. My talwar has likewise been inscribed with holy passages.’
‘Impressive,’ Armand says, stepping closer to inspect the weapon, but possibly using this as a ploy to get closer to Francesca. ‘I would like to see these weapons in action. Any chance of a private demonstration?’
Francesca rolls her eyes and steps away from Armand. ‘Don’t be so presumptuous. Your charm won’t work on me, Frenchman. I imagine you were a stealer of women’s hearts back in France, but we are a world away from there now. It would be best for you to save your words for some damsel back in the courts of Paris who can be duped by your silver tongue. The only private demonstration you’ll ever receive from me of the crossbow’s effectiveness is when I use it to pin that tongue of yours to the back of your mouth.’ She smiles coldly, turns her back on him, and walks away.
Chuckling to himself, as if he has won some private victory, Armand comes over to assist me in tightening my baldrics. ‘She won’t admit it, but she likes me,’ he whispers, staring after the tomb-robber.
‘I’m not too sure about that,’ I say sceptically, noting the disgusted look Diego Alvarez is shooting at Armand. The Spanish swordsman is over near his mount, some ten yards off to our left, huddled under a heavy cloak in an attempt to keep dry. His eyes haven’t left Armand since we’ve dismounted.
‘What?’ Armand asks.
‘She doesn’t seem to be very receptive to your charm.’
Armand snickers and turns to look at me, an amused expression on his face. ‘And since when have you become knowledgeable in the ways of women?’
‘I haven’t,’ I say, somewhat embarrassed. ‘It just seems blatantly obvious to me that she’s not interested in you, that’s all.’
‘Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘I don’t think any amount of charm will work on her,’ comments von Konigsmarck, having heard our conversation and coming over to stand near us. ‘She won’t become the possession of any man. And I wouldn’t question her competence. Yes, she may be young, but she is apparently the best tomb-robber the Custodiatti has ever seen. She came highly recommended by the Vatican. Indeed, I’ve heard that only last year she was the sole survivor of a team of five Custodiatti sent to explore a trap-riddled tomb somewhere in India. Whilst her companions were chopped to pieces, she came out unscathed.’
Hearing this, I look over at Francesca with newfound respect. I had suspected that, for one so young, she had earned her way into the Custodiatti through her beguiling beauty.
My thoughts are interrupted by Friedrich Geist, who gestures for us to gather around him at the base of the rock, where the lowered net lays on the ground some twenty yards or so off to our left. ‘I know this isn’t the best weather to attempt the climb,’ he announces, ‘but we don’t have the luxury of waiting for the storm to abate. We’ve already wasted too much time in coming here, so we’re going up right now. The monks are expecting us.’
I glance up at the monastery, to where the net will be hoisted up into the overhanging winch-house, and feel my stomach turn. It seems impossibly high, and I find myself wondering how many people have lost their lives over the past few cent
uries as they tried to ascend the cliff face.
‘There’s no need for all of us to go up,’ Friedrich continues. ‘We only need to collect the daggers. It shouldn’t be too difficult, I imagine. So I’m asking for two volunteers. The rest will keep watch down here.’
I close my eyes in a silent moment of prayer. Thank God for that. Good luck to Friedrich in finding two volunteers, though. I very much doubt even Reinhold Mordghast and Diego Alvarez will step forward.
So you can imagine how shocked I was when Armand winks roguishly at me, pats me on the shoulder and says, ‘We’ll do it.’
What? Has Armand developed a sudden death-wish? He must have. Why else would he volunteer us? Could he possibly have misheard Friedrich? Friedrich hasn’t asked for volunteers to stroll down to the nearest village to sample the local food and write a review for the Parisian Gazette. He’s asked for two of us to go up to the top of the gigantic monolith, in the middle of a raging storm, hauled up in an old net by a group of frail, elderly monks.
‘You’re not happy about this?’ he whispers as we walk over to the net.
‘Not happy?’ I return, struggling to keep my voice low, and give him an incredulous look. ‘Why on earth did you volunteer us for this job? I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer our heads to be used as cannonballs – or are you saving that for another moment? And please don’t tell me that this is all because you wish to impress Francesca.’
‘We need to earn the respect of this crew,’ Armand returns, somewhat offended by my comment. He looks behind his shoulder to ensure that our companions cannot overhear our conversation. ‘We’re outnumbered by the Milites Christi. I thought it would be best to prove ourselves early in this mission. And I don’t think it would do us any harm to have some time away from that Spaniard.’
‘Diego?’ I ask, glancing back at the Spanish swordsman. ‘I know he doesn’t think much of me – nor of Francesca, for that matter. He thinks we are too young and inexperienced to have been selected for this mission. He told me as much on the first day. But being told I’m a liability because of my age is nothing I haven’t heard before. I’ve just learned to ignore such comments.’ I recall the way in which Diego had been watching Armand when he had been teasing Francesca. There was an animosity in the Spaniard’s stare. And it wasn’t the first time I have seen him regard Armand with such hatred. ‘But what does he have against you?’
