Coven: a dark medieval paranormal romance (Witches of the Woods Book 2)

by Holmes, Steffanie

  As night fell, we saddled the horses again, and moved toward the city. Stuttgart was only three miles from our camp, so in no time at all we could see the city walls. Usually, they were heavily guarded, but with the plague out in force the population was so dwindled that they did not require the same number of soldiers. I knew immediately why my father had chosen this city for the first of his great witch trials: the people here were so sickened from plague and suffering, they would be clamouring at the bit to blame their ills on a flock of witches. They would gleefully cheer while hundreds of innocent people burned.

  We watched from our hiding place as the city watch bolted the gates. Time to strike. Tjard and I tied Willow and Sycamore to a tree, hidden in a low gully where they’d have little chance of being spotted, and crept closer to the gate, our feet crunching against grey snow and splashing through rank puddles pooling in the pothole-riddled road. The smell of putrefaction assailed my nostrils, hanging thick in the air, a sure sign of a city crippled by the Pestilence. And sure enough, as we passed along the road, we stared down into deep pits on either side, some twenty feet deep and fifty-feet across. Although they were each half-filled in with mud and dirt, it was not enough to obscure the mound of bodies that had been dumped inside, those fresh corpses on top still grinning in silent agony as the carrion birds swooped in to peck at their skin. In the damp weather the bodies trapped beneath had turned into a sickening, sludgy soup, with bones sticking up through the sludge like cairns for the fallen – the only memorial these unfortunate souls would get. It sickened me to see that we’d resorted to dumping bodies into pits like barbarians, no one deserving of a proper burial.

  Except that woman on the road. I reminded myself. My good deed was such a small thing next to all this suffering, but I hoped that the woman had risen to heaven, where – if my father had any say in the matter – her child would join her soon.

  “The wicket is open,” Tjard whispered, pointing to the small door in the city gates that swung on its hinges in the cool breeze. Many cities would leave the wicket open even after the main gates were shut, so that drunkards who had wandered too far from the city could find their way back into the safety of her walls. That was a stroke of luck for us, for it meant we didn’t have to scale the wall.

  I’d counted two guards at the gates earlier, nothing we couldn’t handle. I nodded to Tjard, and as silently as possible, we crept along the edge of the road, sticking to the shadows of the trees in case there was still someone else outside the gates. When we neared the gate, we pulled our swords from their scabbards. As I felt the familiar weight in my hands, my whole body tensed, coiling up like a snake ready to strike. The blade felt as though it were part of my body, lifting it again made me whole.

  I gave Tjard the signal to move in behind me. I crept toward the wicket, holding my heavy sword with one hand while I stretched the other toward the door. I counted down from ten in my head, and shoved the wicket open, banging it against the hinges on the other side. The sound punctuated the quiet night. Beside me, Tjard cringed.

  I waited a few moments, but no head popped through to see what had caused the wicket to slam open. No one called out for our names. With my sword point raised ahead of me, ready to greet the guards with its deadly point, I stepped through the door. My shoulders had to bend awkwardly in order to fit through the tiny gap.

  At any moment I expected a blade to sail towards me. I pulled my right foot through and stepped forward, ready to meet the guards, but all that greeted me was a loud snore. I glanced around furtively. The street in front of me was empty, and the two guards that were supposed to be guarding the gates were slumped against the wall, their heads resting on each other as they shuddered with the force of their snores. I saw a wineskin propped up between them.

  I called back over my shoulder to Tjard. “They were mighty foes, but I’ve subdued them.”

  Tjard clambered through after me, his own sword unsheathed. He laughed when he saw the men slumped in front of me.

  “Damn,” Tjard grinned as he placed his blade back in his belt. “I was looking forward to using this.” He picked up the nearly-empty skin and took a swig, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  “Patience,” I hissed back. “You may well get the chance before the night is out.”

  Our entrance to the city now secured, we crept down the dark street, following the faint sound of talking and laughter carried on the crisp breeze. Lamps burned on the corners of the streets, and I could see up ahead the lantern lighter was still on his rounds. It was early in the evening, and the town was unusually quiet. Apart from those in the street, no other lanterns burned inside the houses we passed. As I looked closer, I saw windows had been boarded up, doors barred with large poles or heavy locks, gardens overflowed with weeds, and strange spells and sigils had been scrawled across the walls of some of the houses. My stomach tightened as I realized what I was staring at – plague houses, where the city had shut up victims and their families to live out their last days in fear and misery. Stuttgart had truly become a city of the dead.

  We drew closer to the lantern lighter, who hurried through the street of plague houses, only every third lantern burning bright. He cursed as he reached up to light the lantern on the crossroads. Three times he managed to light the wick, before the wind snuffed out the flame.

  “You there!” I called out to the lantern lighter. “Where would I find the beer hall?”

  He turned and for the first time saw us, two black-clad men with swords on our belts swaggering through the street of death. His eyes grew wide with terror, and he opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a choking sound.

  “We’re not here to trouble you, sir.” Tjard said, his voice a little softer than mine. “We’ve been long on the road, and we just want to know where we can wet our tongues in the city.”

  The lantern lighter jabbed at the air frantically. “You’ll find the hall j-j-just on the other side of the square, opposite the Rathaus, scharfrichters,” he stammered. “Th-th-there are plenty of your sort there already.”

  Tjard and I darted down a gloomy alleyway and weaved through the maze of twisting, winding streets, until we came around the other side of the square. We could hear the beer hall before we saw it – the sound of several men yelling at each other over the din of a rowdy folk band, tankards slamming against thick wooden tables. The noise of chairs and benches crashing down as drunk men tried to navigate through the crowded room.

  “Sounds like home,” Tjard grinned.

  We snuck into the back room and hid behind the barrels. I noticed that each barrel bore a familiar seal – Lord Benedict had his own hofbräuhaus, and he controlled the brewing rights for most of the ale in the area. Only his ale was able to be consumed within the walls of the city, and I’d had it often enough to feel my thirst dying in my throat at the thought of its foul taste sliding over my tongue.

  But we were not there to drink. There was no lantern in the room, and in our dark cloaks there was no chance we’d be spotted. We crouched down beside the entrance to the bar, and listened.

  It soon became apparent that a table near the door was occupied by at least four scharfrichters. As they knocked back tankards of Lord Benedict’s dark ale, they boasted to each other of the number of witches they had imprisoned and killed. My stomach twisted with rage at their words, and my hand hovered over the hilt of my sword. How I longed to leap out from behind the shelves and slice them all open.

  Tjard must have seen the anger in my eyes, for he reached forward and squeezed my knee, reminding me our mission did not include a bloodbath. At least, not yet.

  “I thought Rulf and Asher would’ve been here by now.” One of the men – young, with only a line of stubble across his jaw – said. I heard his lips smack as he sucked down his ale. “They departed from Ulm a full day before me, and you know that Rulf was keen to be first here so he could suck up to Damon.”

  “They might have been waylaid on the road.” his companion, an ol
der man with a flowing white beard, replied. “I was two days longer than I should have been because I was stopped twice on the way by villages wishing to give up their witches into my care.”

  “Aye, yes.” said another. “I had three more sorcerer women given to me in this way. One village was so incensed I had to dispense justice on the spot, or there would have been a riot. The good people are desperate to rid themselves of their menace.”

  The men moved on to discussing Lord Benedict’s summons. “I don’t understand why we’ve been summoned here. Stuttgart isn’t even part of our jurisdiction,” said a young male voice. He slurred his words slightly, and I heard the slam of his empty tankard hitting the table. “I can kill my own witches perfectly well in my hometown.”

  “Damon wants us to march together to Rotstrom,” answered another voice. This man sounded older, sharper. “He believes a show of force will put the fear of God into the witches.”

  “Ah yes, Damon of Donau-Ries. Why is it that he now dictates our actions? He answers to the same power we do.”

  “When you have single-handedly rid the world for five hundred witches and taken arms against your own son to safeguard our profession, then you too will earn my respect.” said the older man. “But until then, you will speak no ill against Damon of Donau-Ries.”

  “What’s this about his son?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard?” This was another scharfrichter, with a strong Bavarian accent. “Don’t you remember Damon’s son, Ulrich? He was almost as feared as his father in the West. Well, he was sent to kill a witch, but instead he fell under her spell. The Elder of the village notified his father, and now Damon has officially disowned the son and called for him to be trialled for his crime. There’s a price on Ulrich’s head, and the head of the witch who enchanted him.”

  Another man tsked. “It just goes to show, even the most righteous men can fall victim to a witch’s fearful powers.”

  The four men stopped their conversation to mumble the Lord’s Prayer.

  “So, if Ulrich is on the run, does that mean his territory is up for grabs?” the young voice said eagerly.

  “That’s not how things work,” the older man admonished him. “Territories aren’t just handed out like noble titles, you know. You need to apprentice yourself to me for a few more years before I put you forward for your own patch.”

  “But Ulrich’s land—”

  “If you want to shortcut the process, you’d have to talk to Damon himself. Although, I advise against it. He isn’t a man who takes kindly to upstarts.”

  “Well, I’m not afraid of him.” The young man sounded amused. “Oh, barkeep! Can you tell me where I might find the most noble scharfrichter Damon of Donau-Ries? I have a matter I wish to discuss with him.”

  I leaned forward, listening frantically. Thanks to this young idiot, I was going to find out exactly what I needed to know.

  “Like I told the last one of ye, he’s already at the castle,” the barkeep answered gruffly. “You know that man don’t waste time on drinking if there’s blood to be spilled. You lot have filled the dungeon to bursting, so he’s gone to make a head-start on the torturing.”

  “Sir, sir!” I heard footsteps running behind the bar. A young, high-pitched voice called out. “They’ve drunk the barrel dry.”

  The bartender sighed. “Well, fetch another barrel, lad. And be quick about it!”

  We ducked back into the shadows as a young boy ran into the store from the bar. Tjard’s nails dug into my arm. We stood bone still, my heart pounding against my chest. Our black cloaks should hide us from view, but if the boy saw us move, or sensed our presence, or saw the moonlight bouncing off Tjard’s bald-spot… we were done for.

  I held my breath, not daring to turn my head to glance at Tjard, in case the noise should alert the boy. He moved deeper into the room, cursing loudly as he searched the racks for the barrel he wanted. He stopped in front of the shelf we hid behind, his eyes darting across the barrels. My whole body froze, my chest cold as ice. Did he see us?

  The boy moved on, crossing the room and finally locating the right barrel on the shelf opposite us. With a lot of swearing and exertion, he dragged one of the barrels from the bottom shelf and rolled it across the floor and back into the bar.

  Only when the boy had left the room did I feel able to breathe again. Tjard shuffled forward, leaning his head against the wall to listen. We both heard the bartender propping up the barrel and serving his first tankard from the tap. “It will be some time before anyone needs to come back here again,” Tjard whispered. “We might learn more that’s of use to us from these scharfrichters, including the meaning of these odd amulets.”

  “My father is in the dungeon,” I said, unable to keep the grin from my face. I touched the handle of Maerwynn’s knife at my belt. “He is alone, for the other scharfrichters are all here. That is all I need to know.”

  Tjard made to grab my arm again, but I was too quick for him. I ducked around him, scrambled out from behind the barrels, and ducked back out into the street. I turned my eyes to the horizon, and there, towering over the terraced wooden buildings of the city, were the imposing turrets of the castle, one of the seats of Lord Benedict’s power and the place where his court was held. My rage burned red-hot in my veins.

  “Ulrich, be careful… Ulrich…” Tjard ran after me, but I ignored him as I strode towards the castle, a single purpose on my mind.

  * * *

  The castle gates were much more heavily guarded than the city wall, but I had been to the dungeon in Stuttgart castle before with my father. I remembered a passage that connected the dungeon to the outer wall – a way for enemies of the Lord to be snuck into the castle without arousing the attention of the people. “There are some things,” I remember my father telling me, in his harsh, no-nonsense voice, “that are best left to the privacy of the dungeon. You will discover, Ulrich, that a powerful man’s most dangerous enemies are friends to his face, and so we need to be like shadows in the night if we hope to do our godly duty for the Lord.”

  I would be as a shadow tonight. I crept along the darkened streets, searching the ground on either side of the road for the hatch. Tjard ran behind me, protesting with every step. After kicking up several clouds of dirt and dust to no avail, I walked over a small lawn containing an ornamental garden and a statue of Lord Benedict in the guise of Mars, the Roman war god. To my surprise, as I stepped on to the grass, my boots made a hollow sound against the earth. That’s odd.

  I bent down and searched with my hands through the grass. It wasn’t long before I found a small metal latch hiding amongst the greenery. Someone had cleverly planted the shallow lawn over top of the hatch, trusting that no citizen would want to risk trampling the pretty garden in Lord Benedict’s city. “Gotcha.” I whispered.

  Checking that no guards were around, I lifted the hatch, revealing a dark tunnel beneath. “Wait here,” I told Tjard. “Guard this entrance from notice. If you see anyone coming, close the hatch and wait here until I return. I’ll knock three times and you can open the door again.”

  “And if someone should recognize me, or they demand to check the hatch?” Tjard’s mouth was set in a firm line.

  “If something should happen,” I growled. “You are to run. Do not risk your life on my account, Tjard. This is not your battle. Let’s have at least one of us escape with our lives.”

  “If it’s all the same,” Tjard growled. “I’d like us both to.”

  “As would I. But we can’t always get what we want.”

  There was no ladder down into the tunnel. Tjard helped lower me down, then shut the hatch on top of me, sealing off the square of moonlight that had served as the only light source. I groped with my fingers, moving as quickly as I dared in the darkness in the direction of the castle. The passage sloped downward, moving deep below the castle wall toward the dungeon, where two floors of cells waited to be filled with witches and heretics. I took my time descending, each strep reminding me
of my purpose.

  If I kill my father, it is the first step in securing my freedom. Mine and Ada’s.

  My forehead connected with something hard. I stepped back, rubbing the spot I had hit, and groped with my fingers to discern the shape of the object. The passage ended suddenly at a low wooden door. The hinge was crusted with rust. The passage had not been used for some time. I tugged at the door. The hinge dropped off the door and landed on the stone floor with a clatter. I winced as the door flew open and banged against the stone wall behind me. Hopefully no one heard that.

  I stared into the room beyond. It was a storage chamber, stacked high with coiled lengths of chain, blacksmithing tools, wooden stools and other items needed in the dungeons. I noticed a stack of broken barrels in the corner, and a pile of straw that might have been bedding for one of the guards. A rat skittled across the floor in a carefree manner. There was no one around, although I could hear faint voices from down the corridor.

  As silently as I could, I clambered over the piles of junk in the room and ducked into the hallway. The voices grew louder, and I realized they were not talking, they were crying.

  I had entered the cells.

  The hall I stood in narrowed in width, so that I had to turn sideways in order to squeeze my bulk through. On either side of the wall were thin doors made of iron bars, leading into small square cells barely long enough for a man to lie down. Into each cell had been crammed several people, mostly women of all ages, but I saw some men and children too. They were naked, their bodies bruised and maimed from the whip and the devices of my trade. Dull eyes stared at me through hair streaked with filth. The man in the beer hall hadn’t exaggerated, the cells really were ready to burst with the press of the unfortunates trapped inside.

  As I stalked through the cells, hands reached through the bars, grabbing at my cloak. “Have mercy, scharfrichter!” a man moaned. “Please, we did nothing wrong!” A woman sobbed. All about me I heard the haunted cries of the damned.