The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  ‘Get out of here. Now!’ Blodklutt cries, then starts pushing us up through the turret.

  Driven by pure terror, I follow von Konigsmarck and Dietrich out through the hatch and find myself in a large chamber. It is over fifty yards wide and just as long, and the carved stone ceiling stands some twenty yards above the surface of the water. Directly in front of me, a chiselled rock platform, rising only one foot above the churning water, extends for a short distance before ending at a stone wall, in the very centre of which is set an open wooden door. Behind me, the rear wall of the chamber descends into the water, where the concealed entrance lies.

  But my heart skips a beat when I see the sheer size of the crocodile that has attacked us, thrashing about in the water as it consumes the remaining sections of what I can only assume is Hans’s body. The beast is gigantic, being over twenty-five feet in length, and has a jaw bristled with dagger-like teeth.

  Following after von Konigsmarck and Dietrich, I leap off the Drebbel, land on the platform and sprint for my life, making a direct line for the door. Casting a terrified glance over my shoulder, I see my remaining companions exit the Drebbel and run after us. But only a second after Captain Blodklutt – the last of our company to leave the vessel – leaps across to the platform, the crocodile gives chase.

  With a speed that defies its massive frame, the beast barges past the Drebbel and tears out of the water. Its hideous blood-stained maw opened in preparation to rip us apart, it races across the platform, gaining on Blodklutt with each passing second.

  ‘Move!’ von Konigsmarck cries, reaching the doorway. Having stepped aside to allow Dietrich and me to race past, he takes aim with his pistol and fires. His shot is true, hitting the beast square in the head. But the pistol ball that would have felled any other creature ricochets off the crocodile’s natural armour of thick scales.

  Armand, Francesca, Diego and Blodklutt race through the doorway, and Dietrich slams shut the door. Only a second later, however, the crocodile crashes into the door with incredible force, making it explode into a thousand pieces and throwing us down the corridor that lies beyond.

  With the crocodile lying in the doorway, covered in wood and disoriented from the impact, we scramble to our feet and race down the narrow corridor, the floor of which is comprised of large sandstone pavers. Some of these pavers are covered in strange symbols, and seem to lower an inch or two when we tread on them. I only now realise that the corridor is illuminated by the flickering glow of torches, set along the walls at regular intervals. We have barely moved twenty yards before Francesca, who is now leading our frantic flight, comes to an abrupt halt and stretches her arms across the corridor, preventing us from falling into the twenty-foot-deep pit that has suddenly opened in the floor, blocking our sole means of flight.

  As Armand and Blodklutt turn around to face the crocodile, which has regained its senses, I move up behind Francesca and stare down into the bottom of the pit. It is bristled with foot-long stakes.

  ‘We’re trapped!’ I say despairingly. ‘We can’t get across that!’

  Francesca licks her lips and studies the pit, her eyes darting over its every feature. ‘It’s too wide to leap over,’ she says under her breath. ‘And there’s no means of securing a length of rope to swing over. Which means we need to go across the wall.’

  ‘Whatever you are going to do, you had better do it fast!’ Armand calls over his shoulder. ‘We don’t have long.’

  ‘Across the wall?’ I say incredulously, noting that the corridor’s walls are made of smooth sandstone. ‘But there are no handholds. We’ll fall to our deaths!’

  ‘No we won’t. Watch.’ Francesca moves several yards back up the corridor, giving herself enough room to gain some speed. She then races forward and, just as she reaches the edge of the ten-yard-wide pit, leaps off to the right. Carried forward by her momentum, she races – horizontally – along the corridor wall and, pushing off at the last moment, lands safely on the other side of the pit.

  ‘Now I need you to do exactly the same,’ she says, producing a length of rope from her pack and throwing one end across to me. ‘But hold the rope as you run across. If you lose your momentum, I’ll be able to pull you over.’

  Inspired by Francesca’s effort, I pick up the rope, take several steps back, draw a deep breath and race forward, my heart pounding. Pushing off with my left foot just as I reach the edge of the pit, I leap into the air and, assisted by the rope, race along the wall, the pit opening ominously beneath me. A second or two later, I arrive safely beside Francesca.

  ‘I can’t believe I just did that!’ I say in disbelief.

  But the triumphant smile vanishes from my lips when I notice that Francesca is looking back across the pit, her eyes wide in alarm, locked on the crocodile as it launches itself at Armand and Captain Blodklutt.

  Separated from my companions, I watch helplessly as the great beast directs its attack at Armand’s head. Ducking at the last moment, and avoiding the crocodile’s closing jaws by only a hand’s-breadth, Armand’s response is lightning-fast and lethal. His blades snake out, slicing through the soft flesh on the underside of the beast’s neck, splattering gore across the sandstone walls.

  Its quarry having evaded its attack, and having felt the bite of tempered steel, the crocodile is driven into a rage. Thrashing its head about violently, it lumbers forward. But in the narrow confines of the corridor, Armand and Blodklutt hold the advantage, and their blades strike out in perfect unison. Only this time, they fail to find the soft underbelly of the crocodile, and their blades glance ineffectively off the beast’s scaled hide.

  As Dietrich and Diego make their way across the pit, running horizontally across the corridor wall, I see the crocodile coil back. The next instant, with a tremendous flick of its tail, the beast propels itself forward, rearing onto its hind legs, lifting itself almost seven feet off the ground, and its jaws strike out at Blodklutt, who dexterously ducks beneath the attack, sending the crocodile’s head smashing – hard – into the wall. Before the beast has time to recover, the Captain drives his rapier up through the underside of its lower jaw, pushing with all of his might until the blade punches through the flesh and scales and three hand-spans of steel emerge inside the beast’s jaws.

  The crocodile recoils in pain, but before it has a chance to withdraw from the fight, von Konigsmarck races forward to Blodklutt’s side and, reaching into the crocodile’s gaping jaws, discharges his remaining pistol deep into its gullet. Writhing in agony, the beast jerks its head back violently, pulling free from the Captain’s blade with a sick, squelching sound. With the smoke from von Konigsmarck’s pistol wafting from its bloodied maw, the creature then withdraws back up the corridor and disappears into the entry chamber.

  There’s an expectant moment as the three swordsmen – breathing heavily, their weapons held at the ready – wait in the corridor, anticipating the beast’s return. But it doesn’t, and after a minute or so they sheathe their blades and make their way across the pit.

  ‘Is anybody hurt?’ Blodklutt asks once we have all assembled on the far side of the trap.

  I shake my head. ‘No. But we’ve lost Hans and the Drebbel,’ I say, unable to remove the terrible image of Hans’s gruesome death from my mind. My hands are trembling uncontrollably.

  ‘By no means would I call this a promising start to this mission,’ von Konigsmarck remarks, reloading his pistols. ‘We may have travelled down here, but I don’t know how we’re going to get back up to the surface. The Drebbel’s out of action, and we’ve lost the one man who knew anything about this mausoleum.’

  Blodklutt nods gravely. ‘I know, but now is not the time for us to worry about how we are going to get back to the surface. Let’s complete our mission first, then we can worry about trying to find a way out of here. But you are right – we needed Hans. Things are going to be difficult from here on.’

/>   ‘Hans served his function,’ Diego says dismissively, his eyes locked on Armand. ‘He got us to the mausoleum. Besides, he got what he deserved. He should have warned us about the crocodile.’

  Dietrich’s eyes flash and he looks sternly at the Spaniard, shocked by the brusqueness of his comment. ‘We all make errors of judgement at times. And it certainly didn’t mean that Hans deserved to die such a horrible death. Not even a blasphemous Lutheran deserves to die in such a manner. You should learn some compassion. It is a noble man who can forgive those who have wronged him.’

  Still staring at Armand, Diego shrugs indifferently. ‘Forgiveness is for the weak,’ he replies, as if the death of Hans has touched no emotional chord in the cold depths of his heart. ‘I have no room for such compassion.’

  ‘Then you are a fool, and there will be none to grieve for you at your funeral,’ Armand comments. He produces a crucifix from around his neck and says a silent prayer for Hans.

  Diego’s eyes are suddenly consumed by a seething, burning hatred. ‘You should learn to hold your tongue, coward, or I’ll cut it out!’ He reaches up to trace a finger along the scar on the left side of his face. ‘I once came across a swordsman in Venice who left me with this. I suspected it was you, but I was never sure. But now, having seen your fighting style, I am left with no doubt.’

  Diego then does something that Armand’s code of honour will never allow to go unanswered – he spits in his face.

  Knowing that a fight is inevitable, my eyes dart across to the French duellist, who wipes a sleeve across his brow and smiles coldly in return. Before I have a chance to say something in an attempt to defuse the volatile situation, both Armand and Diego reach for their blades.

  There is a hiss of drawn steel, but Blodklutt and von Konigsmarck intervene, grabbing hold of the duellists’ wrists, preventing them from further drawing out their blades from their scabbards. The two men pull the duellists away from one another.

  ‘This argument ends now!’ Captain Blodklutt barks, pinning Armand against a wall and looking back at Diego. ‘If you cannot resolve your differences, then I’ll disarm the both of you and send you back to the entry chamber to face the crocodile. Don’t think I won’t do it. Lay your differences aside. We have a mission to complete, and I won’t let your personal vendetta jeopardise it. Am I understood?’

  It takes some time for the fire to extinguish in Armand’s eyes. ‘Yes, yes,’ he says finally, and releases his grip on his sabres. ‘You are right. We need to prioritise finding the Tablet of Breaking. I’m sorry, but he pushed me too far.’

  Although Blodklutt releases his hold of the Frenchman, I can tell, by the cold stare he shoots at Diego, that Armand has only momentarily decided to bury his grudge. By no means has he excused the Spaniard for his insult. Sometime in the near future their blades will be drawn again, for Armand will only find satisfaction when the Spaniard is lying dead at his feet.

  Our attention is drawn back to the corridor, beyond the shattered door, where the sound of movement reveals that the crocodile is lurking somewhere in the entry chamber. We are distracted for only a second. But that’s all the time it takes for Diego to push away from von Konigsmarck, draw his blade and, before any of us could react, lunge at Armand.

  Detecting Diego in the corner of his eye, Armand darts instinctively to his right, avoiding the hissing streak of silver that is Diego’s rapier by only a finger’s-breadth. But Captain Blodklutt, standing directly beside Armand, is not so lucky, and the Spaniard’s rapier cuts into his shoulder. Even before Blodklutt cries out in pain, Armand’s hands fly to his sabres, and one of them snakes out – faster than a bolt of lightning – at Diego’s face. The Spaniard recoils at only the last moment.

  Von Konigsmarck and Dietrich reach for their pistols, but they are stopped by Armand. ‘No!’ he orders, pointing one of his sabres at them to emphasise his point. ‘Leave your pistols where they are. The Spaniard is going to die by my blades. Now step back and give me room.’

  Doing as instructed, we withdraw reluctantly from the combatants, who pace to the left and right, giving their blades the occasional slash through the air, loosening their wrists for the ensuing duel.

  ‘I’ve been waiting a long time for this, French dog!’ Diego snarls, raising his blade into a horizontal position, its point aimed at Armand’s eyes. ‘I’ll gut you like the pig you are!’

  Armand snickers recklessly in return and assumes a defensive stance, one of his sabres held out at full arm’s reach. Then, with a jerk of his chin, he smiles savagely and beckons the Spaniard to attack.

  Diego’s first thrust is so fast it almost defies comprehension, and I cross myself, praying that Armand will survive this fight. But Armand’s riposte is equally fast, parrying aside Diego’s rapier and then, in the same fluid motion, slashing out at the Spaniard’s head, forcing him to dance back. Not even a heartbeat later, Diego leaps forward again, forcing the attack, and the swordsmen become locked in a savage duel.

  Armand’s training has made me aware of different fencing techniques, and it doesn’t take me long to detect the different fighting styles used by the two duellists. Trained in the Spanish style of fencing, Diego fights in an upright stance, his blade held high and straight, delivering cuts at Armand’s head. In direct contrast, Armand, not restricted to the strict principles prescribed by the fencing schools of one particular nation, has developed a cosmopolitan technique, derived from the Italian, French and Spanish styles of swordplay, giving him much greater freedom of movement; his dance of death not so regimented and formal as the Spaniard’s. At one moment he is crouched, his legs wide apart, bent at the knees, one of his blades held low in preparation to deliver a thrust, and the next instant he darts forward, a sabre delivering a series of swipes at his opponent’s head and torso. And so, the duellists engage in a synchronised whirl of steel, locked in a contest of technique, reflexes and endurance.

  After almost three minutes of fighting, Armand launches forward in a series of traversing steps and manages to draw aside Diego’s blade with a diversionary thrust. Capitalising on the advantage, he lashes out with his second sabre, delivering a horizontal slash across Diego’s forehead. Caught off-guard by the speed of Armand’s attack, the Spaniard staggers back, his free hand pressed against his forehead in an attempt to stop blood from running into his eyes and spoiling his vision.

  Realising the tide of the fight now favours Armand, Diego feigns to lunge forward, forcing Armand to withdraw. Then, spinning on his heel, he races back towards the pit. Von Konigsmarck and Dietrich reach for their pistols and take aim at the fleeing Spaniard, who, leaping in the air, races along the wall on the side of the pit. Diego somehow manages to avoid the pistol balls that smack into the wall near his head. Landing safely on the other side, he pushes off with his right foot, twists in mid-air, produces a pistol from his belt, and takes a shot at Armand, who presses himself flat against the wall as the pistol ball whizzes past his chest. Landing on his back, Diego performs a backward roll and springs to his feet. Casting a death-stare at the French duellist, he then races back up the corridor and escapes into the entry chamber.

  ‘This is not over, French dog!’ he calls out, his voice a deep echo that carries back down the corridor. ‘You’ll never leave this mausoleum alive.’

  ‘The Devil take that man!’ Blodklutt curses, inspecting his wounded shoulder.

  Armand and von Konigsmarck are about to give chase, but Dietrich stops them. ‘Don’t go after him,’ he cautions, raising his hands. ‘He is merely a distraction – albeit a deadly one – from our quest. We must not lose track of why we came here, and we would lose valuable time in going after him. Besides, I don’t like his chances against the crocodile.’ He turns to the Captain. ‘How is your shoulder?’

  Blodklutt rolls his shoulder tentatively, but a spasm of pain prevents him from completing the revolution. ‘Not the best. I don’t t
hink we’ll be able to count on my sword much more from here on in. It’s just as well I brought a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum along with me.’

  I shake my head, knowing that this is not good. Captain Blodklutt is a master swordsman; his skill with a rapier without rival in the ranks of the Hexenjäger. And that is no idle claim, considering how talented Armand is in the art of swordplay. The incapacitation of the Captain’s sword-arm is a terrible liability – one that could severely impede the successful completion of our mission.

  ‘This is my fault,’ Armand says apologetically, returning his blades to their scabbards and inspecting Blodklutt’s wound. ‘I should have killed him the instant he insulted me back in Greece. I should not have allowed this to happen. And now you have paid the price.’

  ‘No. The blame for this lies with me,’ von Konigsmarck says, clearly shocked by the actions of a member of his military order. There is a concerned look on his face, as if he fears that we might consider what has transpired with Diego as a reflection on the quality of his leadership. ‘When Diego challenged Armand to a fight back at Meteora, I warned him that he would be dismissed from the Milites Christi if he did not let the matter rest. I know he has made the odd derisive remark to the Frenchman since then, but I believed he had taken heed of my warning.’ He looks at Armand. ‘But now I understand why Diego acted with such hatred towards you. You’re the one who gave him the scar. He has always said that if he should ever meet the swordsman who scarred his face, he would kill him on the spot, even if he were at prayer in church.’

  Blodklutt gives Armand a disappointed look. ‘You should have told us of this earlier,’ he says through clenched teeth, fighting back the pain in his shoulder. ‘You knew there was a possibility that Diego would recognise you and yet you kept this to yourself. In doing so, you placed the entire mission at risk. I would have expected more from you.’