The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2

by Stuart Daly

‘But we have no idea how deep it is,’ Armand says. ‘It might drop for over a hundred feet. Either that, or I bet its floor will be covered in foot-long stakes, just waiting to impale us.’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ I say.

  Struggling to support my weight, I reach down with one hand to produce a pistol ball from a leather pouch strapped to my belt, and drop it into the darkness. Barely three seconds pass before we hear it hit the bottom. We exchange confused looks. Then we stare down into the pit, wondering why we can’t see the floor, which cannot possibly lie beyond the perimeter of our lantern-light.

  And it’s then that we catch our breath in alarm. For, some fifteen feet beneath us, the bottom of the pit suddenly appears, made visible by the movement of hundreds of black shapes that had previously laid motionless, giving the appearance that the pit fell into infinite darkness. But now, disturbed by the pistol ball, they disperse to the sides of the pit and start to climb the walls. Only after they have climbed to a height of five feet can we discern that they are massive spiders, well over a hand’s-breadth in length and with inch-long fangs.

  ‘Maybe dropping that pistol ball wasn’t such a good idea,’ Armand whispers, afraid of even speaking lest it draw the spiders up to us.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ I say, my pulse racing. ‘And it won’t be long before they reach us. We need to find a way out of here – and fast!’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ Armand says, his eyes darting desperately around the pit, searching for any possible means of escape, but finding none. ‘This place isn’t exactly swarming with escape routes. Can this get any worse?’

  As if in answer to Armand’s question, his lantern starts to flicker and fade. Speechless, we exchange a horrified look. The next instant, the lantern fails, leaving us in complete darkness.

  ‘It just got a lot worse!’ I say.

  We have only been hanging in the dark for a few seconds when I start at the sound of smashing glass.

  ‘What was that?’ I ask, alarmed. ‘Don’t tell me your lantern fell from your belt?’

  ‘It didn’t fall,’ Armand says. ‘I threw it at the spiders. Let’s just hope that the dark didn’t spoil my aim.’

  I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Why on earth did you do that? I have flasks of oil in my pack. We could have refuelled and lit the lantern.’

  ‘Well, how was I to know that?’ Armand says defensively. ‘I don’t have any spare oil, and I assumed that you didn’t either – considering that you don’t even have a lantern to begin with. I thought I could at least kill a few of the spiders. But let’s not get into an argument here. This is hardly the time or place. If anything, now might be a good time to confess your sins.’ He pauses, and I hear him sigh, almost as if in defeat. ‘I cannot see us getting out of here, young Jakob. I know I’m no priest, but I’ll gladly hear your confession.’

  I don’t think the odds have ever been stacked greater against us. Trapped in a sealed pit, with spiders the size of dinner plates scaling the walls, and no source of light, there is little hope of survival. Even Armand, one of the bravest men I have ever known, has given into despair. But a resolve rises from deep within me, bolstering me with some inner strength to struggle onward – the very same strength of will that had saved me during our encounter with the witches and the Brotherhood of the Cross in Schloss Kriegsberg, turning my fear into a burning desire to stay alive.

  ‘Don’t talk like that,’ I say defiantly. ‘I’m not giving up just yet. There has to be a way out of here. I’m sure our friends haven’t abandoned us, either. Francesca advised us to climb into the pit, and I’m sure she is working on a way to get us out. But, first of all, we have to stop those spiders from reaching us.’ I pause, and despite the hopelessness of our situation, I cannot help but laugh. ‘Let’s just hope that your lantern smashed into the biggest, ugliest spider down there.’

  As Armand chuckles by my side, I consider the equipment stored in my pack. The pitons, which had been so useful in traversing the earlier corridor, are of no use here, and I cannot think of any practical way of securing a length of rope to enable us to climb down to the bottom of the pit. And even if we could do that, we’d still have to work out a way to avoid the spiders. I consider the flasks of oil stored in my pack, and an idea comes to mind.

  After some difficulty, I manage to retrieve a flask from my pack. I then instruct Armand to take one of the pistols tucked into my belt.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ Armand asks, a spark of hope in his voice.

  ‘I’ve taken a flask of oil from my pack. I want you to fire the pistol – it doesn’t matter where. All I need is for the flash to light up the pit just long enough for me to work out where I need to throw the flask. Just wait until I’m ready.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Armand says, the tone in his voice revealing that he is not sure what I have in mind.

  Planting my feet firmly against the wall, I lean back from the ledge as far as possible, the flask held in my free hand, and give Armand the command. I hear him thumb back the firing pin. The next instant, there’s a tremendous BLAM! as the powdered flash of the pistol lights up the entire pit, revealing that the spiders have already climbed halfway up the walls. The light lasts only a second, but that’s all the time I need to determine where to throw the flask. I hurl it at the wall, a yard or so beneath Armand’s feet, and the flask smashes upon impact drenching the side of the pit in oil.

  I ask Armand to fumble through my pack to find the remaining flasks of oil. Once retrieved, we throw them against the other three walls, at approximately the same height at which I smashed the first one.

  ‘That should keep the spiders at bay,’ I say, grimacing against the pain in my fingers and forearms. ‘I can’t see them climbing past the oil. These walls will be as slippery as ice.’

  Armand laughs softly to himself and returns the pistol to my belt. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

  I look across into the darkness off to my right, to where Armand is hanging. ‘I got you into this mess, and I’m going to get you out of here. How exactly, I don’t know. But I will.’

  ‘You’re a good friend, Jakob,’ Armand says. ‘And I’m sure there are a million places you’d rather be right now, but I’m glad you’re here with me.’

  I smile sadly. ‘The others saw us climb into the pit,’ I say, going over my earlier thoughts. ‘I’d like to think that they won’t abandon us. I’m sure Francesca is working on some way to retract the walls, allowing us to climb free. And if that’s the case, then we just have to work out a way to prevent ourselves from falling.’

  ‘What about our pitons?’ Armand asks hopefully. ‘Can they be of any use? Can’t we wedge them into the gap where our fingers are, and then get a rope attached to them?’

  ‘No. I’ve already considered that, and they aren’t thick enough. They’ll slip straight out of the gap. What we need is something thicker – something like . . . our scabbards.’ I pause, realising that I may have just worked out a way to conserve our energy and prevent us from falling, allowing us to hang here until we can be rescued. ‘Our scabbards will be just the right width,’ I explain. ‘If we tuck our blades into our belts, we can wedge our scabbards into the space beneath the closed walls, leaving the attached baldrics to dangle down into the pit. We can then rest our knees in the cradle of the baldrics. We’ll still have to hang on to the ledge with our hands, and it won’t be comfortable, but the baldrics will support most of our weight.’

  We put the plan into action – and it works. With the pressure relieved from our hands, and the baldrics supporting our weight, we flex our cramped fingers, hoping that it won’t be long before our companions come to our rescue.

  As a means of distracting us from our predicament and to pass time, Armand asks me to describe my home town, admitting, much to my surprise, that he has travelle
d little outside of France and Italy. And so I tell him of how, under the patronage of Elector Prince Johann Georg II, the current Elector, the city of Dresden has flourished and become the jewel of the German state of Saxony. I tell him that my uncle resents how much the city has changed, even during his lifetime, and that its once quaint appeal has been compromised by the affectations of the nobility, who, drawn to the frequently staged operas, flood through the city’s gates in opulent cavalcades.

  As a child, I used to mimic my uncle’s discontent, much to the humour of his friends and colleagues. But it’s only now, a world apart from the streets of Dresden, that I realise just how much I miss the city. The mere mention of its name fills my heart with longing – to return to its familiar cobbled streets. Evening strolls with my uncle along the banks of the Elbe, and chasing friends through the stalls of the central marketplace – things that I had once considered routine and common – have now become precious treasures of the heart. But whilst thinking of the city fills me with a warm sense of longing, it is coupled with a deep sense of regret for the life I have abandoned. I have foregone a life of security and peace to follow the perilous path of a witch hunter.

  Minutes drag by, and after some consideration I tell Armand about Dietrich’s dying words – about my father’s affair with the cousin of the Marquis of Ayamonte. Perhaps talking through the issue with Armand, who is experienced in the ways of the world, might provide me with a greater understanding of my father’s behaviour. Besides, it’s not as if we have many other ways to pass the time.

  ‘Hmm. I imagine you weren’t expecting to hear that,’ Armand says after I have finished. ‘But Dietrich did the right thing in telling you this, for you had a right to know. I certainly hope that you don’t let this be a reason to forsake your father and abandon your search for him.’

  ‘I really don’t know what to think at the moment,’ I say. ‘It’s all just come as such a great shock.’

  ‘I expect it will take some time for you to accept this information,’ Armand says. ‘But let me say this – although I’m certainly not condoning what your father did, the life of a career soldier is a lonely one. And until you have tried stepping into the shoes of a man who has lived that life, I don’t think it’s fair that you pass judgement on one who has. For years your father was away from home, living out of a saddle-bag, campaigning in foreign lands. Whereas a civilian has the luxury of waking each morning, safe in the knowledge that they are free from the horrors of a battlefield, a soldier wakes wondering if this will be the day they will be killed by an enemy’s musket ball. All they have for companionship are their fellow comrades-in-arms, who could die at any moment.

  ‘I know you served under Generalissimo Montecuccoli, Jakob, but your service would have been short for one so young. I very much doubt you saw much of the horrors of war, and you most certainly have not truly experienced the loneliness and uncertainty that is the lot of the career soldier. And so I would not be too quick to judge your father, when every soldier around him may have had a mistress in every town through which they passed. It may well be that he wanted to remain true to your mother, but he was torn between the love of two women – his heart so divided that it was impossible for him to choose.

  ‘Since the day Adam was tempted to eat of the forbidden fruit, none of us have been free from the stain of sin. Are you able to look within your own heart and say that it is pure? We have all done things that we are not proud of. I would not judge your father until he has had a chance to explain his actions. Only then will you find the truth. Besides, you had always believed that your uncle and aunt were the sole remaining members of your family. Now you’ve discovered that you have a half-brother and a half-sister. Although they have a different mother, they share your father’s blood – your blood.’

  I hang in silence for some time after Armand has finished, contemplating the wisdom of his advice. But I am particularly touched by his words that we need to look within our own hearts – and to assess the lives we have led – before we judge others. Again, I am reminded of my own deception, having entered the Hexenjäger under false pretences, and of the way in which I abandoned my uncle and aunt. I cannot help wondering to what extent Armand’s appeal for me not to be too hasty in my judgement is motivated by his longing to be forgiven by his own family for his immoral past.

  Kneeling in the darkness, lost in thought, it’s hard to tell how much time has passed. Armand’s words play heavily on my conscience, and I’m about to reveal to him that I forged a letter of introduction when, suddenly, a tremendous grinding sound reverberates throughout the pit as the walls above us start to retract. We grab hold of the ledge once more and free our knees from our baldrics. A shaft of dim light breaks through the darkness above our heads. Cheering madly, we grab our scabbards and baldrics, throw them clear of the pit, and wait for the walls to fully retract before climbing out.

  Having regained our feet, we shake the blood back into our hands and feet, and call out victoriously to our companions, who are waiting for us in the antechamber at the far end of the room.

  At this very instant the walls start to close in – again! Guttural cries echo from the darkness behind us, and we turn around to find that some of the undead – perhaps over a dozen of them – have somehow made it through the chamber with the rotating columns. They are clambering through the narrow corridor behind us, and they scream out in a blood-crazed frenzy the instant they have us in sight.

  And if that isn’t bad enough, they are being led by two Watchers.

  ‘Time to move!’ Armand yells. He collects our scabbards, then grabs me by the arm and pulls me after him.

  The undead give chase, but we have a fifteen-yard lead on them. By the time they reach the pit and the walls are only five yards apart, we have joined our companions on the other side of the room. But the Watchers race forward with surprising speed, leap across the pit, and draw their heavy swords. Their hooded robes have been shredded – most likely by the blades attached to the rotating columns – revealing their cadaver-white flesh, scarred and scorched by Armand’s earlier attack with the holy water. Though it’s their blood-red eyes that send my skin crawling, for they are blazing with satanic fury.

  The Watchers race between the closing walls and launch themselves at us. As Armand and I are still equipping our baldrics, Captain Blodklutt and von Konigsmarck step forward to meet their attack, armed with their rapiers in one hand and their Daggers of Gabriel in the other.

  Dexterously twisting through the Watchers’ swinging swords, Blodklutt lashes out with his dagger, slashing it across one of the Watcher’s thighs. The fallen angel reels in pain, staring in disbelief at the open wound. Before the Captain has the opportunity to capitalise on this, three undead – the only ones to successfully make it through the adjoining room before its walls slam shut – race into the antechamber and join the fray. Distracted, Blodklutt is forced to abandon his attack. Avoiding a savage swipe from the wounded Watcher, he dances to safety and assumes a defensive stance, biting back the pain in his wounded shoulder as he levels his rapier at the undead, keeping them at bay.

  Von Konigsmarck, however, is an easy target for the undead. Parrying aside a series of attacks by the second Watcher, the first knowledge he has of the arrival of the undead is when one of them crashes into his side. It knocks him off his feet and sends his dagger skittering across the floor.

  The next instant, the undead dive in for the kill. Driven purely by instinct, von Konigsmarck thrusts his rapier deep into the chest of the closest of his attackers. Carried forward by its momentum, three hand-spans of steel puncture its back. Still lying on the floor, von Konigsmarck pushes the convulsing corpse from his blade, but before he has time to regain his feet and prepare his defence, the remaining undead swarm on top of him and try to rip into his neck. His rapier useless in such close combat, von Konigsmarck tries desperately to ward them away, but when one of them manages to
pin back his arms, his fate seems sealed.

  Armand snatches the remaining loaded pistol from my belt, draws a sabre, and dives into the melee. Francesca and I also try to enter the fight, but we pull back when Armand’s sabre lashes out, almost taking off my right arm by accident.

  Having knocked one of the undead senseless with a savage kick to the head, Armand swipes his sabre at the other, practically severing its head. Then, before the undead he kicked aside has time to regain its senses, Armand pins its head to the floor with the heel of his boot, takes aim with his pistol, and – BLAM! – sends it straight to Hell.

  No sooner has the French duellist assisted von Konigsmarck to his feet, than the Watcher comes after them again. I give a cry of alarm and they duck, narrowly avoiding the swipe delivered by the Watcher. Put off-balance by the momentum of its attack, the Watcher stumbles and von Konigsmarck hammers the cross-guard of his rapier into its jaw, before lunging forward and driving his blade hilt-deep into its torso.

  Twisting violently, the Watcher wrenches the rapier from von Konigsmarck’s grasp, leaving it impaled in its chest. Staring down at the blade, the Watcher sneers sadistically, knowing that no mere weapon – even those consecrated by the Church – can harm it. Leaving the blade where it is, the Watcher hoists back its own sword in preparation to attack von Konigsmarck, determined to cut him apart before he has a chance to rearm himself.

  Leaping back, von Konigsmarck dodges the Watcher’s humming blade. But then the fallen angel leaps, closing the distance in less than a heartbeat, and drives its blade straight at von Konigsmarck, who can only watch, his eyes locked on the blade that is about to skewer him . . . until Armand comes to his rescue and parries aside the attack.

  ‘You’ve got to do better than that.’ Armand grins viciously, tosses aside my discharged pistol, and follows up his parry with a kick to the Watcher’s left leg, forcing it to drop to one knee. Before it can climb to its feet, Armand pulls the Dagger of Gabriel from his belt and drives it into the Watcher’s neck.