The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

  ‘We can traverse across the wall,’ I say, turning back to my companions, my entire weight suspended above the corridor floor. ‘It may be more time-consuming than working our way across the paving stones, but this way we can circumvent the traps.’

  Armand looks at me and shakes his head with pride. ‘You never cease to amaze me, young Jakob.’

  I step off the wall and Francesca comes over and pats me rewardingly on the shoulder. ‘I’ve been in this business for many years now,’ she says, ‘and I’ve never seen anybody come up with such an ingenious idea. We might have to rewrite the textbook on tomb-raiding. Well done, Jakob.’

  ‘So it will work?’ von Konigsmarck asks.

  Francesca smiles broadly in admiration. ‘Oh, it will work. And I recommend we put Jakob’s idea into practice this very instant.’

  As my companions focus on producing the pitons from their packs, I savour a moment of reverie. It’s only now that I’m starting to have some faith in my own abilities. Being new to the Hexenjäger, having never fired a pistol or wielded a blade in combat until my first mission to Schloss Kriegsberg, I often find myself questioning my competence. Indeed, during times of troubled sleep, when our own misfortunes and inadequacies become magnified into the deepest of despairs, I regret that I have deceived my companions and lied my way into the order. But I have now accomplished tasks that I would have never believed possible and each of these successfully completed tasks has bolstered my belief that, although I secured my way into the Hexenjäger through false pretences, my actions and deeds have now earned me the right to belong to the order. I am moving further along the perilous path followed by a witch hunter, developing skills that may well save my life – and those of my companions.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ Francesca says, drawing me from my thoughts. Collecting the pitons in a cloth bag she has slung over her neck, Francesca moves over to the wall and starts to insert the first of the iron spikes into the holes.

  An hour later and we are still traversing the corridor wall. With Francesca leading, we move at a reasonable speed and have developed an efficient technique securing the pitons and making a path for the rest of us to follow. Armand, bringing up the rear, collects each of the last pitons, and we simply pass them forward to Francesca, who reinserts them into the wall. But there seems to be no end to the corridor. It is infinitely vast, still stretching away into the darkness. It’s hard to gauge how far we have travelled, but Francesca estimates that we have covered several hundred yards. And still, from somewhere up ahead, the sound of arrows being shot from the walls echoes down the corridor, revealing that Friedrich – or at least, the person we believe to be Friedrich – has still not yet found their way to the end.

  Pausing for a moment to flex my cramped fingers, I look back at Blodklutt, who is second-last in line, and wonder how his shoulder is faring. He is obviously in some pain, judging from the sweat streaming down his forehead and the way in which he is rubbing his wounded shoulder. But he endures the injury without complaint, a model of stalwart determination, knowing that he has no option but to continue forward until we reach the end of the corridor.

  Just as Dietrich hands me two pitons to pass forward to Francesca, I notice something that makes me start. For a light, so faint and distant, has suddenly appeared at the beginning of the corridor.

  ‘Someone’s just entered the corridor!’ I call out in alarm, drawing my companions’ attention to the light.

  Armand turns suddenly. ‘So Diego’s decided to come after us,’ he snarls. ‘Well, let him come, and I’ll greet him with a hand span of steel in his guts.’

  Francesca’s eyes narrow suspiciously as she stares back at the light. ‘You might not have to wait too long to do that. Unless I’m mistaken, that light is waning by the second. If it is indeed Diego, then he is racing up the corridor.’

  ‘What?’ I say, and only after a few seconds of observation I notice that Francesca is correct. The light is indeed getting closer.

  ‘Well, that puts us in a fine predicament,’ von Konigsmarck comments and looks up the corridor, obviously wondering if we will be able to make it to the other side in time.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ Francesca says. ‘It will just be a matter of time before Diego’s luck runs out and he is hit by one of the arrows. Until then I suggest that we keep moving.’

  We continue along the wall, glancing over our shoulders at the approaching light. It is not long before we can discern Diego, sprinting up the corridor, guided by the lit lantern gripped in one of his hands. He already has arrows lodged in his chest and left thigh, but he ignores them, spurred forward by what I can only assume is his desire to slay Armand. Then, when he comes within sixty yards, his body arches violently, and he clutches at the arrow lodged deep in his left shoulder. But even this doesn’t stop him, and he cries out in rage as he continues racing forward.

  ‘He’ll be upon us in no time at all,’ Blodklutt says, stepping down from the wall, testing his weight on a paver. Fortunately, it does not send an arrow shooting out from one of the holes. ‘I’m going to put an end to this,’ he says, drawing his rapier and staring grimly at the approaching Spaniard. Before Armand has time to argue the matter, Blodklutt raises his hand. ‘You are to continue working your way to the end of the corridor. I’ll catch up once I’ve taken care of Diego. Just leave four pitons in the wall for me to use. Now get moving. Each second we delay here increases Friedrich’s lead.’

  ‘But what of your shoulder?’ Armand protests. ‘You are injured. The Spaniard is skilled with a blade. You won’t be able to beat him. Let me stay in your stead.’

  Blodklutt’s eyes narrow fiercely and lock on Armand, indicating that there is to be no further questioning of his decision. ‘Injured or not, I will slay him. Now go.’

  Reluctantly, we move further along the wall, sparing concerned glances back at the Captain, who rolls his injured shoulder gingerly. And it’s only now, when Diego is within twenty yards of Blodklutt and is hit by a fourth and fifth arrow, that we note the look of absolute fear on the Spaniard’s face. He is not chasing after us – he is running away from something.

  His breath coming in laboured gulps, and blood streaming from his arrow-wounds, Diego stumbles within five yards of Blodklutt, his hands reaching out in a desperate plea for help. But as he steps onto another paver, an arrow shoots straight into Diego’s neck, the barbed head protruding a hand’s-breadth through the other side. He takes three steps forward, his eyes glazing over before he collapses dead on the floor.

  My heart racing, I stare at the Spaniard. I know that he had become our enemy, and he would not have hesitated to slay Armand, but I cannot be so callous as to remain indifferent to the death of a former companion.

  Any moment of silent prayer for Diego is lost the instant I see movement just beyond the perimeter of light cast by our lanterns. Now I realise what made Diego run to his death.

  My blood freezes.

  The Watchers’ legion of undead are lumbering up the corridor, hiding in the darkness beyond our lantern-light.

  The undead legion of Gehenna have caught us!

  ‘Look out! They are here!’ I cry out and, leaping instinctively from the wall, sprint as fast as my legs can carry me down the corridor. Arrows whizz all around me.

  ‘That’s impossible! How did they get here so fast?’ I hear Dietrich yell from somewhere behind me. He discharges his firearm into the horde, which, having been detected and lost their element of surprise, scream out in fury and lurch after us in a writhing mass of rotting limbs and gaping maws.

  ‘Don’t worry about that now,’ Captain Blodklutt barks. ‘Just follow Jakob and run!’

  And so our frantic flight begins. Abandoning caution, my companions leap from the wall and run at breakneck speed after me, triggering dozens of pressure-stones and causing a storm of arrows to fly through the air. Te
rrified of slowing down and suffering the same fate as Diego, we lower our heads, stick to the middle of the corridor, and run for our lives.

  We have barely covered more than fifty yards, however, before Dietrich – the oldest and slowest member of our party – cries out in pain and clutches at the arrow protruding through his left leg, just below the knee. He stumbles, almost losing his footing, but Armand falls back, hooks an arm under his shoulder, and together they race forward again.

  I give a cry of hope. Just at the edge of the perimeter of light cast by our lanterns, I see the corridor end at a sandstone platform, which ends at a heavy stone door.

  But just as I send a prayer to the Blessed Virgin for saving our lives, a figure emerges from the shadows near the door, wrapped in a black robe, its drawn mortuary sword gleaming in the dim light, thirsty for our blood.

  Friedrich Geist!

  Other than the cold sneer of command on Friedrich’s lips, there is little left to tell that this had once been the commander of the Milites Christi. His eyeballs are rolled back, revealing lifeless white orbs. The contorted, scarred features of his face – which is smeared in blood – twitch as if caught in some permanent spasm. His rotting flesh, riddled with festering wounds, is visible through the torn remnants of his clothing, and even at this distance he emits a rank odour of decay, like that of a charnel house. The shafts of dozens of arrows protrude from all parts of his body. But these have failed to injure him, for, being one of the living dead, he can now only be killed by weapons blessed by the Church.

  As if things could not get any worse, Dietrich cries out in pain as a second arrow hits him in the lower thigh. He slips from Armand’s grasp and collapses on the floor. Determined that he will not leave his companion behind to be torn apart by the undead, Armand draws his sabres, kisses their honed edges, positions himself protectively beside Dietrich, and turns to face the oncoming horde of undead.

  Knowing that we only have seconds before the undead will be upon us, Blodklutt races past me along the remaining section of corridor and leaps onto the platform. Grimacing against the pain in his wounded shoulder, he engages Friedrich in a savage fight; their blades slice through the air with incredible speed.

  ‘Make for the door!’ the Captain yells over his shoulder, weaving to his left, avoiding a thrust from Friedrich’s blade by mere inches, and drawing his opponent after him. ‘I’ll hold Friedrich off for as long as I can, but you need to get out of this corridor. You must then seal the door behind you.’

  ‘No! We’re not leaving anybody behind,’ I call out defiantly, racing past Blodklutt and reaching the door, von Konigsmarck and Francesca only a second behind me.

  Blodklutt delivers a combination of thrusts and stabs, forcing Friedrich further away from the door. ‘You will follow my order!’ he yells, his eyes blazing. He grimaces against the pain in his wounded shoulder. ‘We cannot allow the undead to reach the artefact. Now close the door and wedge it shut!’

  I cannot bring myself to do it, and so I stand on the threshold of indecision, knowing that the success of our mission hinges on my ability to follow through with Blodklutt’s order, but in doing so I will condemn him, Dietrich and Armand to certain death.

  It’s at this point – as Friedrich’s mortuary sword slashes savagely at Blodklutt’s head, who shuffles dexterously to his left, avoiding the blade by a mere finger’s-width – that the undead catch up to Armand and Dietrich. They stagger up the corridor in their hundreds. Some, having lain within Gehenna for over two millennia, are nothing more than skeletons adorned with tattered remnants of cloth. Others are in a horrific state of decomposition, with the rotten gangrenous flesh of lepers, their faces half eaten away, their limbs ending in mangled stumps, and feathered arrow-shafts lodged in their torsos. But they only advance as far as the edge of the lantern-light, and then they part, withdrawing in reverence to the sides of the corridor, making a path for the robed figures that emerge from the darkness. There are four of them, the flesh of their exposed hands and faces cadaver-white, and their eyes blood-red.

  The Watchers!

  In a bold act of defiance, Armand swaps one of his sabres for his Dagger of Gabriel and brandishes it at the fallen angels. But it has no effect on them. The Watchers advance to within six yards of Armand and Dietrich, reach beneath their robes and draw their heavy medieval swords, the blades of which are covered in Satanic verses that glow like hot coals.

  ‘We cannot wait any longer!’ von Konigsmarck says, pushing Francesca and me into the chamber beyond the door. The torches positioned along its walls flicker to life the instant we feel our feet activate a pressure-stone just inside the doorway. ‘There is no need for honour when fighting the undead,’ he adds. He produces one of his pistols, takes aim and fires. His shot is true, smashing into Friedrich’s jaw and blasting him off his feet, and buys Blodklutt the time he needs to reach the door.

  As the Captain and von Konigsmarck are pushing the heavy stone door shut, I cry out for Armand and Dietrich to make a final attempt to reach us. Armand looks back at me and grins defiantly, as if he has some plan up his sleeve – he has lured the undead and Watchers to exactly where he wants them.

  As the Watchers step forward and draw back their blades, Armand reaches for the water-skin hanging by his side containing the holy water he collected in Greece. He rips out its stopper and, thrashing the receptacle about, douses the Watchers and the closest of the undead in the liquid.

  A terrible scream assails our ears as the holy water burns through the Watchers and undead like acid. Their skin smoking and hissing, they writhe in agony, trying desperately to distance themselves from Armand’s unexpected attack.

  Seizing the temporary advantage, Armand drags Dietrich to his feet. Carrying him over a shoulder, he races back to the platform, the muscles in his neck cording with the effort. Arrows shoot forth from the walls and roof, some coming to within mere inches of the escaping duo, but they manage to avoid them, and make it to the door.

  The instant they escape from the corridor, Blodklutt and von Konigsmarck close the door after them, and Francesca seals it shut by hammering some pitons in the gap between the door and the floor. Before we have taken three steps into the new chamber, however, the undead reach the end of the corridor, and I shudder in fright as they launch themselves against the sealed entrance.

  ‘That’s not going to hold them for long,’ von Konigsmarck warns, hastily drawing his rapier and second pistol. He moves back with Blodklutt to ensure that the first of the undead to break through the door are greeted with a length of steel.

  ‘Francesca,’ Blodklutt calls over his shoulder, ‘I need you to find us a way out of here – and fast. We have only minutes before the undead break through.’ He turns and looks back at Armand and Dietrich. ‘I thought for a terrible moment we were going to lose you back there.’

  ‘You don’t think you can get rid of us that easily, do you?’ Armand grins. ‘But seriously, we’re just lucky that the Watchers can be stalled by holy water. Otherwise, we’d be dead right now.’

  ‘I wish you would have told me of your plan,’ Dietrich says and shakes his head, still struggling to comprehend how he managed to escape from the undead. ‘I thought that was going to be the end of us.’

  ‘Now why would I spoil the surprise?’ Armand smirks, then turns his attention to Dietrich’s injuries. ‘But we need to see to these. You won’t be going far unless we can get these arrows out and get some bandages over these wounds.’

  As I go to assist Armand, I pay a glance over my shoulder and inspect our surroundings. I stop dead in my tracks and realise that we may have been better off back in the corridor.

  The chamber we are standing in is circular in shape, with walls that climb over thirty yards high. In the centre of the chamber is a thick stone column that reaches from the floor to the ceiling. The room’s sole exit is a doorway close to the ceiling, a
ccessed via a narrow platform that extends from the stone column to the wall. Hundreds of scimitar-like blades protrude from the column, making the climb to the platform treacherous.

  ‘What can you make of this?’ Francesca asks, noticing me staring up at the column.

  ‘The only exit is up there,’ I say, pointing at the doorway located near the ceiling. ‘And it appears that we can only reach it by climbing the column. Fortunately, the blades are positioned horizontally, meaning that we can use their sides as both foot and handholds. We’ll be able to climb to the top, but we’ll have to be careful not to cut ourselves.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what the person who invented this chamber would like you to believe,’ Francesca says. ‘But it’s not that simple. I’ve heard of this design before, in a tomb created in ancient Mesopotamia. Can you see that there is a metal shaft running through the centre of the column?’

  I nod and she continues. ‘Also note how the column is comprised of six separate sections, and each alternate section has its blades facing in the opposite direction. Each of the blades acts as a trigger. Once you touch one, that section of the column starts to rotate. Now that would make the climb difficult, but not impossible. But each alternate section rotates in the opposite direction. Once you start climbing, you find yourself caught in a storm of blades.’ She pauses and looks at me. ‘So what do we do?’

  I rub the back of my neck in thought, surprised that the professional tomb-robber should ask for my opinion. I suspect that Francesca has already worked out how to reach the doorway, and she is just curious to see what I will come up with. ‘We circumvent the trap – avoid the column altogether,’ I say, fearing that we’ll be sliced into a thousand pieces if we attempt the climb.