by Stuart Daly
‘He’s dead,’ he announces.
‘Well, that didn’t go down as well as we had hoped.’ Von Frankenthal wipes the sweat and grime from his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Any idea as to what we should do?’
Armand chews his bottom lip for a few seconds before shaking his head in a defeated manner. ‘There’s no point in staying here now that Brother Lidcombe has been killed. We can no longer destroy the spell granting the Sons of Cain their powers.’ He turns to stare at the church tower. ‘But we can help Francesca and Dorian. Jakob and Prayer, you had best come down here. Upon my command, we are going to bolt over to the church.’
Prayer looks down from the opened pages of the Hammer of the Witches. ‘What about the spell I was going to cast?’
‘I don’t think we have time for that now,’ I say, casting my eyes about fearfully, wondering what has become of the Son of Cain, but still finding no sign of him, nor of his black mount.
Armand tightens the buckles of his baldrics in preparation for the sprint. ‘Our situation has taken a turn for the worse. We have lost this fight. All that remains is to see if we can escape with our lives. And we aren’t abandoning Francesca and Dorian.’
‘I had no intention of leaving without them,’ Prayer says determinedly as she follows me down from the tree. ‘Even if you had all been killed and I was left here alone, I would not abandon them.’
I consider Prayer with newfound respect. She obviously places a high value on the bond of friendship.
Von Frankenthal is also impressed. He looks at Prayer admirably. ‘There’s more to you than meets the eye. I’m beginning to like you.’
‘There will be plenty of time to sweet-talk the women later,’ Armand says, making me smile nervously in spite of the severity of our situation. His eyes scanning the tattered sheets of mist – which, if I am not mistaken, appear to have drifted around us in an ever-tightening circle – he moves over to inspect Witch Finder Blackwood. After a few seconds he shakes his head and returns to join us.
Prayer stares at the still form of her former commander. ‘I had hoped that he would still be alive. I cannot believe he is dead.’
I, too, find it hard to believe. Along with his former companions, Witch Finder General Matthew Hopkins and John Stearne, Israel Blackwood was one of the most revered witch hunters in English history. Yet he was killed in the opening stages of this fight by a single pistol shot to the chest – killed by an assailant he never even got to lay his eyes upon. His sudden death a harsh reminder of the perilous path followed by witch hunters, I say a silent prayer, hoping that no more of my companions are destined to fall in this cemetery.
‘He taught Dorian and me all we know about hunting witches,’ Prayer adds softly.
‘Then his legacy will live on,’ Armand says respectfully. ‘You should feel honoured that he taught you all he knew. He obviously saw great potential in you and Dorian. And by the looks of it, he did a great job in training you.’
Prayer looks at Armand and smiles sadly. ‘Thank you.’
Armand turns his attention back to the tower, where Francesca and Dorian are still fighting off the Hell Hound. ‘It’s time we go. Follow my lead. And whatever happens, do not fall behind. Once we reach the church we’ll barricade the doors, then head straight up into the tower.’ He looks at me and smiles encouragingly. ‘We’ll save our friends yet.’
It’s just as we are about to begin our sprint up to the church, however, that the spectral figure that slew Brother Lidcombe materialises out of the mist, blocking our path up to the church. Its face resembles that of an old hag, its wrinkled features twisted in hatred and set beneath a mop of long grey hair strands, which drift in the air like snakes. The spectre appears to have taken form from the mist itself and from the waist down tapers off into nothingness, floating some three feet above the ground. From its gaping, slavering mouth rises a haunting, tortured wail that makes me cringe. The air has also become bitingly cold, forming clouds of condensation when we exhale.
‘What is it?’ Armand asks, moving protectively to the front of our group.
‘It is a fury,’ Prayer says. ‘A ghost-like hag usually sent by witches and warlocks to scour over battlefields, searching for the souls of recently slain soldiers to take down to Hell. I’ve never seen one before, but Witch Finder Blackwood told me that he encountered one in Cornwall many years ago. It is exactly as he had described.’
‘Can it be killed?’ I ask, my terrified eyes locked on the spectral hag, my resolve shattered by the fact that we have yet another opponent to deal with.
There’s a hiss of steel as Prayer draws her rapier. ‘Witch Finder Blackwood slew it with his sword.’
‘Then let’s send it straight back to where it came from,’ von Frankenthal snarls.
Just as we are preparing to rush the spectral figure, several dozen more emerge from the grey veil of mist. They encircle us, blocking any possible means of escape, and flex their claw-like fingers in preparation to rip us to shreds.
God help us!
Armand darts forward to meet the furies with his swinging blades, his mortuary sword and sabre carving hissing arcs of silver through the air, slicing through the spectral forms as easily as a blade passes through smoke. The furies hit by his blades lose their form, their remains swirling in the wake of his swords like tattered sheets. An instant later, the scraps of mist come together again, taking shape until the furies re-emerge, unaffected by Armand’s slashing steel. They lash out with their claws at the French duellist, screeching wildly, tearing through clothing and flesh, leaving him cut and bleeding from multiple wounds.
‘Our swords are having no effect against them. They cannot be killed!’ I race forward to join Armand, determined to help him in any way possible.
Knowing that the best I can do is forestall the furies for a few seconds, I slash out with my Solingen rapier at one of the spectral forms coming up from behind Armand, my blade slicing it in half. Even before I can strike out at a second advancing fury, the first one I attacked reforms. Its clawed hands shoot out: one grabbing hold of my wrist, preventing me from using my sword; the other latching around my neck. Fingers as cold as ice start to squeeze the life out of me. I try to free my sword-arm, but I cannot break away from the fury’s vice-like grip. Choking, I stagger back and stare helplessly into the eyes of the demonic face that materialises only a foot in front of me, its features twisted in a sadistic snarl.
Just as I begin to fear that this is where I will die, a hissing dagger slashes out at the hand locked around my throat, severing it at the wrist. As the fury recoils, screaming in pain and clutching at the stump of its hand, the blade snakes out again and cleaves the fury’s head from its shoulders. Rather than reform, the severed head and torso turn into ash and scatter across the ground.
It’s only now I realise that the dagger is being wielded by Prayer. ‘How did you do that?’ I ask, sucking in air, my throat burning with pain.
‘They can be killed.’ Prayer grabs me by the arm and pulls me back to join von Frankenthal, who is standing with his back against the Hanging Tree so that he can only be attacked front on. She brandishes her dagger at the furies, keeping them at bay. ‘But not with your blades. Only silver weapons can slay these spectres.’
‘That’s fine as long as you have a silver blade – which we don’t,’ Armand says sourly, having fought his way clear of the furies and joining us by the tree. ‘It might have been nice to have been told this before I charged into them.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Prayer says. ‘But when I saw that your blades were having no effect I remembered the Witch Finder’s rapier is fitted with a silver blade, explaining why he could kill the fury he encountered in Cornwall. We’re just lucky that all of the Angeli Mortis carry silver daggers and I could come to your rescue.’
‘Still, that leaves us only one weapon to defend ourselves w
ith,’ I point out, rubbing my throat.
Prayer shakes her head. ‘No, we have three blades: the one I carry, and Witch Finder Blackwood’s rapier and dagger.’ She races over to her commander’s corpse, where a fury tries to intercept her. But Prayer drives her dagger into its chest, turning it to ash. She then collects the Witch Finder’s blades and runs back to join us.
‘Here,’ she says, handing the rapier to Armand and the dagger to von Frankenthal, leaving me, the least skilled in swordplay, to fend for myself.
Armed with his mortuary blade in his left hand and the Witch Finder’s rapier in his right, Armand pays an anxious look over at the church tower. I follow his gaze and my stomach tightens with dread when I see no further sign of combat. I pray that Francesca and Dorian have either killed the Hell Hounds or escaped back into the church.
‘We’ve delayed long enough,’ Armand announces. ‘We need to go right now.’ He turns to me. ‘Stay by my side. I’ll see that nothing comes near you. Don’t worry – we’ve been through worse than this. I’ll get us out of here yet.’
I swallow nervously, trying to take strength from Armand’s promise but dreading the run up to the church. ‘Believe me, I won’t be leaving your side.’
Armand gives me an encouraging wink before turning his attention back to the furies. ‘Prayer will take point. Jakob and I will come up in the centre. Von Frankenthal, you’ve got the rear. May God be with you.’
Then we race for the church.
We sprint through the cemetery, Prayer’s long-bladed dagger carving a path through the furies, which swirl around us in a maelstrom of slashing claws. But Prayer’s and Armand’s blades are faster, severing the ghost-like limbs that swipe out of the mist, turning them to ash before they can rip into us.
Racing by Armand’s side, I hurdle a tombstone and quickly glance back to see how von Frankenthal is faring. Not as fast as the rest of us, he has already fallen a few yards behind. The dagger in his hand, however, is a slashing arc of silver, dispatching all of the furies that dare come near him.
Onward we press, racing as fast as our legs can carry us, determined to reach the church and find out what has become of Francesca and Dorian. Just as we are halfway to our objective, Armand thrusts at a fury coming at us from the right. At that exact moment, out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of grey come shooting at me from the left. A cry of warning caught in my throat, I lash out desperately at the fury with my sword, hoping to cut it in half and delay it long enough for Armand to send it back to Hell with his silver rapier. But the fury avoids my attack, rushes forward and swipes at my face.
I pull back instinctively, just as clawed fingers – as sharp as razors – swish only a hair’s breadth past my left cheek. Unbalanced, I trip over my feet and slam into Armand. We go down in a mess of flailing limbs and blades, and roll across the ground for several yards before tumbling down a lengthy flight of stairs and stopping before the metal door of a tomb.
Sprawled on the stone floor, I raise my rapier and stare anxiously up the stairs, expecting the furies to swarm after us. Seconds drag by, but the spectres do not give chase, the sounds of pursuit carrying on towards the church.
‘We need to go back to the others,’ I say, shaking Armand, who lies face down by my side, his blades lying a yard or two back up the stairs.
He only mumbles incoherently, and I roll him over to find that he is barely conscious. His eyes are closed in pain and a terrible lump has formed on the left-hand side of his forehead. Cradling his head in my lap, I pull the stoppered leather bag from my belt and pour water over his face in an attempt to bring him back to his senses. He coughs and splutters, shakes his head and opens his eyes.
‘What happened?’ he asks, and tries to lift himself up onto a shoulder. Finding the effort too great, he slumps back into my lap. He winces in pain as he clutches his right arm, his primary sword-arm, tightly against his chest. ‘This isn’t good.’ He gestures with a nod of his head to his arm. ‘I think I’ve broken it. Either that, or I’ve severely sprained my wrist. It also feels as if I’ve cracked my head open. What in God’s name happened?’
‘A fury came at me,’ I say, feeling immense guilt in being responsible for Armand’s injuries. I look back up the stairs once more, hoping that the furies do not return and pursue us. ‘I accidentally knocked you over. We fell down this flight of stairs leading to a tomb. That’s when you sustained your injuries. We’re just lucky that the furies didn’t follow us.’
‘Lucky for us, but not for von Frankenthal and Prayer. I’m also worried about Francesca and Dorian,’ Armand mutters sourly. He looks about desperately, as if in search of something. ‘My swords! I need my swords.’
‘They’re here, on the stairs.’ I scurry over to collect them and hand them to the French duellist.
Armand sheathes his mortuary blade and grips the handle of his recently acquired rapier. I feel the tension in his body drift away, the feel of steel in his hands evidently as comforting as a priest’s absolution to a sinner at death’s door.
‘It’s a fine mess we’re in now, Jakob,’ he says, shuddering against a spasm of pain in his arm. ‘Let’s just hope that the furies don’t come after us. I don’t think I’m any state to fight them off.’
I lower my head in shame. ‘I’m sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t run into you none of this would have happened.’
Despite his injuries, Armand attempts a smile. ‘We’re alive. That’s all that matters for now. I’ll just need to rest here for a few minutes, then we’ll carry on.’ He closes his eyes and takes some deep, controlled breaths. ‘I have to get to Francesca. I won’t abandon her.’
‘We’ll save her yet,’ I say determinedly.
Looking up to Heaven, praying that Francesca has fought her way past the hounds and is currently hiding somewhere in the church, I see something that makes my heart freeze in fright. For a figure has appeared at the top of the stairs.
The Warlock of Lower Slaughter!
He reins in his mount and stares down at us through blood-filled eyes. Dismounting, he draws his broadsword from its scabbard with a deliberately accentuated hiss of death. He comes towards us, his stride painstakingly slow, our deaths an absolute certainty.
‘Get up!’ I cry, dragging Armand to his feet. ‘We need to escape.’
The Frenchman pushes me aside. ‘Leave me here.’ He leans against the tomb door and raises his blade in his left hand in preparation for combat; his features visibly strained by the effort, his sword trembling. ‘I’ve had enough of running. It’s time to stand and fight.’
I look at Armand in disbelief. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know the Son of Cain cannot be killed. And you’re injured. It will be a massacre!’
Armand stares grimly at the Warlock of Lower Slaughter, who has descended a quarter of the way down the stairs. ‘It’s nice to see you have such faith in me.’
‘What? How are you going to last longer than a few seconds?’
Armand shakes his head defeatedly. ‘I’m in no condition to run, Jakob. If this is where I am going to fall, then so be it. But, believe me, I will not fall easily. I’ll buy you the time you need to escape. Just promise me that you’ll go and save Francesca.’
My heart beating wildly, I grab Armand by the shoulders and stare at him hard in the eyes. ‘None of us are going to die here – not you, nor me. We’re going to find a way out. I’ll even carry you if I have to. Then we’re going to go to the church and save Francesca together. You made a promise that you would help her. And I understand you too well to know that you would never break your word. We’ve been through so many adventures for us to die here. So stop talking as if you’ve given up, and start thinking of a way to get us out of this mess before it’s too late.’
Armand’s eyes flash with renewed purpose. ‘I’m not well enough to race past the Son of Cain. Which means our o
nly option is to get into this tomb. We can barricade ourselves inside. Once I’ve had time to check my injuries and prepare myself, we’ll break out. With any luck, I will have only sprained my wrist. I may only need a few minutes for it to get better. Then I’ll show this accursed servant of Satan what a witch hunter can do.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ I say. ‘Now give me a hand with this door.’
Finding the metal door unlocked, we push our shoulders against it, prising it open just far enough for us to slip into the darkness beyond. Leaning my sword against a nearby wall, I reach into the inside pocket of my cloak and produce the spare length of cord I had used to detonate the gunpowder barrels in the dungeon. I lie it on the ground and ignite it with my tinder and flint, illuminating the tomb with a soft, flickering light. Armand and I then close the door, and I wedge one of my daggers in the gap beneath it. I brace my shoulder against the door in anticipation of the Son of Cain.
I breathe a nervous sigh of relief, comforted by the fact that there is now a heavy metal barrier separating us from the Son of Cain, but I cannot shake the final image of the demonic rider from my mind. For just as the door was about to close, I noticed that the Warlock of Lower Slaughter had stopped several yards from the tomb, his sword lowered and his features set in a sadistic smile – it’s as if we had escaped from a wolf by running blindly into its den. And it’s with a cold shudder of dread that I recall Bishop Henchman’s earlier comment that the Sons of Cain had a lair somewhere within the cemetery.
‘I don’t think he’s coming after us,’ Armand says after what seems to be an eternity. He slumps against the door, squinting against the pain in his forehead and arm. ‘Thank God for that. I was not looking forward to that fight, given my present state.’
‘It might be a little premature to be thanking God,’ I warn, reaching down to break the lit cord into two pieces. I tie them around the blades of our rapiers, just above the cross-guards. ‘The Warlock seemed to take a morbid pleasure from the fact that we had run into this tomb. I don’t think he had any intention of coming in here after us. Bishop Henchman said that the Sons of Cain slept inside coffins in a lair within the cemetery. I hate to say this, but I think we may have just found it.’
