by Stuart Daly
Rather than smile victoriously, Armand appears solemn and almost pensive as he kicks the lifeless corpse free from his blade. He stands there for a while, staring down at the lifeless Spaniard, oblivious to the fire spreading along the corridor and ignoring Francesca’s and Blodklutt’s cries that he climb up after us. Looking down at the man who has become my closest friend, only I seem to understand the significance of what the Spaniard’s death means to Armand.
There are four values that Armand holds close to his heart: his desire to defend Christ, personal honour, the bond of friendship, and the skill to wield a blade. I’m certain it is this final value that is troubling him. Although Armand is not consumed by the same fanaticism that drove Diego to challenge all swordsmen who stood in his way of becoming the greatest duellist of his age, he, too, lives by the sword.
I’m sure he is wondering how long it will be before he ends up skewered on the end of an enemy’s blade. On this occasion, Armand was yet again the victor, but those who live by the sword die by the sword, so the adage goes. Perhaps it is only a matter of time before the next duellist who deliberately baits him with personal affronts to his honour takes his life.
Francesca’s cries eventually draw Armand from his thoughts, and he sheathes his sabres and climbs after us. We are all physically drained, but the severity of our situation gives us a nervous energy. Reaching the next level, we race after Francesca, searching desperately for a means of accessing the next floor. By the time we sprint past the storeroom where I had destroyed the Tablet of Breaking, we stare back down the corridor, our attention drawn by the sound of splintering wood. The next instant, a section of the floor near the ladder collapses. Flames come roaring out of the hole, consuming the far end of the deck.
‘Let’s hope that takes care of the final Watcher and any remaining undead,’ I say, thinking that nothing could survive that furnace.
Armand clicks his tongue, and his eyes narrow sceptically. ‘Given all that we’ve been through during the last few weeks, nothing would surprise me any more.’
Spurred forward by Francesca, we continue moving down the corridor until we find a central ladder network that appears to give access to every deck of the vessel. Believing that this must have been how Friedrich Geist and Dietrich Hommel got past Blodklutt and Armand when they had been battling the undead, I follow my companions up four ladders, eventually reaching the hold.
This deck is like a warehouse, containing all of the provisions and supplies the Ark needed for its forty-day voyage. Heavy oak support beams stretch from the floor to the ceiling, and the entire deck is littered with upturned broken barrels, aged coils of rope, spare lengths of wood and threadbare cloth bags. All is coated in dust and the air has the musty smell of an ancient tomb.
‘We cannot climb any higher,’ Francesca says, moving some twenty yards into the hold before pausing to reload her crossbow. ‘Let’s just hope that the roof of the Hall of Records fully retracts, allowing the Ark to float to the surface of the Dead Sea, before the undead or the fire catches us.’
We move down to join her, when there’s a tremendous grinding noise from directly above us, like wood scraping on stone. The next instant, the Ark vibrates fiercely, forcing us to brace ourselves against the heavy wooden support beams.
‘What’s happening?’ Armand asks, terrified, his eyes locked on the upturned floor of the hold, almost as if he expects the vessel’s hull to break apart at any moment, allowing water to come gushing into the Ark.
‘The Hall of Records has flooded, and we have floated to the top of the chamber,’ Francesca says, her manner composed, as if all is going to plan. ‘That noise must be the keel – the spine of the Ark – scraping against the retracting roof of the chamber. I suggest you take a firm hold, for, once the roof withdraws, we are going to rise to the surface. It could be a rapid, turbulent ride.’
‘Let’s hope it is fast,’ Blodklutt says, gesturing with a jerk of his chin for us to look deeper into the hold, where, just at the edge of our lantern-light, smoke is wafting up through the floor. ‘The fire has been keeping pace with us. It looks as if it has already burnt its way through the floor below us.’
Sparing a worried glance over my shoulder to check if smoke is appearing elsewhere, I nearly jump out of my skin when I notice a dark, smouldering figure with one blood-red eye climb the ladder into the hold, a broad blade with glowing symbols gripped fiercely in its hands.
‘It looks as though we have company,’ Armand announces, also noticing the Watcher. ‘I’m glad Shemyaza came after us. I hate to leave a fight unresolved.’
As if in answer to Armand’s haughty words, Shemyaza steps closer, its scorched and scarred features twisted in rage. It raises its hand, palm held outwards, which suddenly pushes forward. The next instant, a gale-force wind shoots towards us, scattering debris everywhere and knocking us off our feet.
Then the Watcher is upon us, bearing down on Armand with its hellish sword. Scrambling back along the debris-strewn floor, Armand is lucky to escape the attack, Shemyaza’s blade humming through the air only an inch above his head. As the Watcher prepares to deliver a thrust intended to skewer Armand through the chest, the Frenchman lashes out with the heel of his boot, kicking the fallen angel hard in the torso, forcing it to stagger back, its attack abandoned.
By this time we have all climbed to our feet. Braced against a wall, Blodklutt is already reading from the Malleus Maleficarum, a hand outstretched, ready to cast a spell. Francesca has taken position a yard off to his left, her crossbow aimed at Shemyaza. I stumble forward to join Armand in engaging the Watcher.
Whilst I need to use the support beams to help keep my balance as the Ark grinds against the roof of the Hall of Records, Armand launches himself at the fallen angel, his sabre and Dagger of Gabriel moving impossibly fast. Somehow managing to maintain his balance, he weaves forward in a synchronised storm of steel, forcing the Watcher to focus exclusively on parrying aside his blades, not giving it the opportunity to use its diabolical magic. It’s not long before Armand finds an opening in Shemyaza’s defence. Using his sabre to twist aside the Watcher’s blade, Armand lunges forward with his dagger, its point aimed directly at the fallen angel’s heart.
But it’s then that the impossible happens.
For just as Armand’s dagger is about to plunge into Shemyaza, it transforms before our very eyes, turning into dozens of rats, their eyes ablaze with hellish fire.
Armand’s dagger flashes through the air, striking nothing. As the rats fall to the ground and disappear back down the rungs of the ladder, the keel of the Ark stops moving against the roof of the Hall of Records. All goes deathly quiet and still, and we stare at Francesca in nervous expectation, wanting to know what is about to happen. Just as her lips part in order to say something, the vessel groans and suddenly lurches, prompting us to return to the support beams lest we lose our footing.
‘The Ark has moved clear of the retracted roof,’ Francesca says. ‘Hold on tight – we are about to rise!’
No sooner has she said this than we feel the vessel start to drift up through the floor of the Dead Sea. What starts as a slow, calm ascent quickly turns into a turbulent ride, our speed increasing with each few passing seconds, forcing us to hold on for our lives. To make matters worse, our attention is drawn by the sound of splintering wood, and we stare at the section of the inverted ceiling from where the smoke is gathering. The next instant, that entire section of the hold collapses in an explosion of embers. Flames like Hell’s upsurge erupt from the hole. But there is nothing we can do about it. We are in God’s hands now, and we pray that the ancient vessel will hold together just long enough for us to reach the surface.
After a minute or so, we feel the Ark burst through the calm surface of the Dead Sea. The vessel rises high in the air, seems to hold for a few seconds, then begins its descent. My stomach flips, as if the ground has suddenl
y disappeared beneath my feet. Francesca cries out, warning us to brace ourselves for the ensuing impact, and then the Ark hits the water with tremendous force. There is an enormous WHUMP! and we are knocked to the floor. We lay there, too afraid to move, and stare expectantly at one another. The Ark rocks violently for a few minutes before it settles, and we climb to our feet, reassured by the gentle rocking motion that the Ark, still inverted, is now floating atop the Dead Sea.
Armand gives a victorious cheer, relieved to have finally made it out of Sodom alive. ‘You were right! You knew all along that this would happen,’ he says ecstatically, racing across to hug Francesca.
‘You might want to hold off on the celebrations for a little longer, Frenchman,’ Francesca says, somewhat embarrassed by Armand’s reaction and pushing away from him. ‘We’ve still got to break through the hull – and the sooner the better, given that this entire area is going to go up in flames very soon. Don’t forget that we still have the Watcher to deal with too.’
Armand’s eyes flash with purpose, and he looks back at the ladder. ‘You just focus on breaking through the hull. Leave the rat-catching to me. Like I said, I don’t like leaving a fight unresolved – particularly when it involves fallen angels who have tried to undo our Lord’s creation.’
‘I’ll join you,’ I say, not sure of what assistance I’ll be able to offer, but not wanting Armand to face the Watcher alone.
Blodklutt catches me by the arm. ‘No. It’s best if you leave this final fight to Armand and me,’ he objects and directs me to help Francesca, who has already started tapping with the pommel of her talwar on the hull, searching for a weak spot. ‘The fire may not kill us, but the hold is filling with smoke. If we don’t get out of here soon, I fear we will we suffocate. So find us a way out of here. Don’t worry about the Watcher. We’ll cover your backs.’
Doing as instructed, I assist Francesca in probing the hull, but not long passes before she places a restraining hand on my shoulder. ‘Slow down,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s better for us to do this properly. Besides, I think I’ve already found a suitable spot to break through.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, coming over to where she has marked the hull with the point of her blade. ‘I’m just eager to get out of here. We’ve come so far that it would be an insult for us to die now, trapped inside the Ark. It’s so frustrating knowing that all that’s preventing us from escaping are a few planks of wood.’
‘They won’t stop us for much longer.’ Francesca uses her dagger to dislodge a plank of wood from the hull. I join her, and it doesn’t take us long to pry apart several lengths of wood. A beam of sunlight streams through the opening, and I take a deep breath, savouring the fresh air.
I turn around to look at Armand and Blodklutt, a victorious smile on my lips. ‘We’re through. We can get out now.’
‘Well done,’ Blodklutt commends, still standing watch by the ladder, his eyes as determined as ever. But he lowers the Malleus Maleficarum when he sees the hole in the hull. ‘I think we might leave the Watcher to face the fire, though the thought of leaving it behind does not sit well with me. We don’t have long before –’
But the words are caught in his mouth when the floor beneath Francesca explodes in a mass of splintered wood and smoke!
Before any of us have time to react, Shemyaza, having transformed back into its normal form, bursts through, latching its scorched hands around Francesca’s legs. The next instant, it disappears back down the hole, taking the Italian tomb-robber with it.
‘No!’ I cry, reaching desperately for Francesca.
But I am not fast enough, and the last I see of her are her eyes. They lock onto mine for a split second, transfixing me with their look of pure terror. Then she is enveloped by the smoke and darkness and whisked away.
I stand there dumbstruck, staring blankly at my outstretched hand.
Francesca!
But Armand and Blodklutt, having the trained senses of experienced Hexenjäger, are not struck by shock. They both race past me and leap down the hole. Then reality comes flooding in and, driven by instinct alone, with no regard whatsoever for my personal safety, I follow after them.
I land heavily on the deck below and roll to my side in an attempt to break my fall. Ignoring the twangs of pain in my wounded side, I stagger to my feet and draw my rapier and Dagger of Gabriel. I quickly take in my surroundings, trying to get a sense of orientation. The fire is raging on this deck. Some fifteen yards to my left, the entire corridor is ablaze. Tongues of fire are licking along the ceiling, threatening to engulf the entire area, and the heat and flying embers are enough to make me shield my face and take several fearful steps back. To my right, beyond the ladder, pockets of fire have sprung up, but they have not yet blocked access to the far side of the corridor. Several narrower corridors branch off to my left and right. All is engulfed in billowing smoke, forcing me to breathe through my sleeve. There is no sign of the Watcher and Francesca, nor of Armand and Captain Blodklutt.
The heat and smoke obscuring my vision, it takes me some time before I catch a blur of movement further down the right side of the corridor. Drawing a heavy breath to steady my nerves, I race forward.
It’s not until I have skirted around the ladder that I make out the hazy outlines of two shapes stalking through the darkness directly ahead, their backs turned towards me. Unsure if they are my fellow Hexenjäger, I come to a dead halt at a distance of some twenty yards from the figures and raise my rapier in preparation for combat. Struggling against the smoke, I give an involuntary cough.
That very instant, the figures stop.
They turn and stare at me.
Anxious seconds pass. My heart racing, I squint against the smoke, trying to determine if they are my companions or the undead. It’s only when the shadows crouch in fighting stances and start to advance towards me that I realise I have stumbled across the latter.
Taking a wary step back, my stomach knotting with fear, I will myself to hold my ground. I am startled when one of them calls out my name. I recognise it instantly as Armand. But his voice is desperate, as if I am in grave danger.
And now I realise that Armand and Blodklutt are not advancing towards me. Instead, they are moving forward to attack whatever it is that has emerged from directly behind me.
I snap my head around to stare at the Watcher – Shemyaza!
It has come out from where it had been hiding, waiting for us to pass straight by. Silhouetted against the fire and wrapped in smoke, it looks as if it has risen from the fiery depths of Hell. Its heavy blade is gripped in its right hand, the runes ablaze with satanic magic. And then there’s Francesca, drawn tight against the Watcher, whose left hand covers her mouth, preventing her from calling out. She’s trying desperately to break free from the Watcher’s grasp, but her efforts are to no avail.
Attempting a different tactic, Francesca manages to wriggle a hand down her side to produce the Dagger of Gabriel from her belt. Holding the blade backwards, she drives it back, deep into the Watcher’s thigh.
Giving a bloodcurdling roar born of rage as much as pain, the Watcher tosses Francesca aside. She flies through the air like a rag doll before slamming into the corridor wall and slumping to the floor, unconscious.
And then Shemyaza comes at me.
Cowering in fright, I brandish my dagger in a vain attempt to keep the fallen angel at bay. But it swats my blade aside, sending it skittering down the corridor. Before I can raise my rapier in defence, it backhands me, knocking me off my feet and sending me crashing into a section of the nearby wall unaffected by the fire, right beside Francesca. The wind exploding from my chest, I slump to my knees. Spitting blood and struggling to regain my breath, I look down at Francesca through tear-filled eyes, overwhelmed by a sense of failure. We were so close to escaping from the Ark. All that remained to be done was for us to climb through to freedom. Th
e Watcher looms above us like a shadow of death, its blade drawn back ready to butcher us. I place my arms protectively around Francesca and close my eyes, hoping to shield her from the terrible death that awaits us.
But Armand’s blade snakes out of the smoke, catching the Watcher by surprise, and savagely slashes its face, forcing it to stagger back. The Frenchman follows this up with a series of thrusts, making the Watcher retreat beyond the ladder, buying me enough time to collect my dagger and return to stand guard in front of Francesca.
‘Are you hurt?’ Blodklutt asks, drawing up beside me, armed with the Malleus Maleficarum and his Dagger of Gabriel.
I wipe a sleeve across my bleeding mouth. ‘I’m all right. But Francesca took a heavy knock. She’s unconscious.’
Blodklutt puts a restraining hand on my shoulder, indicating that I am not to enter this fight. ‘Then guard her. Leave this final Watcher to Armand and me.’
Having no intention to argue this matter, I nod silently, hoping that my fellow Hexenjäger will slay Shemyaza. Armand is determined to end this fight; his blades move with impossible speed, weaving through the Watcher’s defences and leaving their signature in the form of vicious wounds on the Watcher’s arms and chest.
Just when I think that it will only be a matter of time before Armand plunges his Dagger of Gabriel into the fallen angel, the Watcher leaps several yards back from Armand, allowing it enough time to raise a hand and make a grabbing motion in the air. The next instant, Armand comes to a jarring halt, almost as if he has run into a brick wall. The Watcher then raises its outstretched hand, and although separated from Armand by a distance of some four yards, it uses its sinister powers to lift the duellist two feet into the air.
