by Stuart Daly
In an act of suicidal bravado, Dorian taunts the Son of Cain with a crude remark. He then grabs his rifle by the barrel and turns it upside down so as to club the rider from his mount. Fearing that this will be the end of Dorian – and possibly also Prayer and von Frankenthal, who have just dismounted alongside Dorian, their swords drawn in preparation for combat – I snatch Prince Rupert’s pistol from my belt.
Recalling the Prince’s comment that this pistol can clip the ear off a fox at fifty yards, I pull up my horse, thumb back the pistol’s firing pin and take aim at the Son of Cain. When Alistair McClodden is no more than twenty yards away from von Frankenthal and the Angeli Mortis, I fire.
The Scotsman clutches his chest and is knocked from his horse. Seizing the advantage, Prayer and von Frankenthal remount, and Dorian races over to swing into the saddle of his own horse. I follow them along the trail to join Armand and Francesca, and as one we spur our mounts along the main road back to London.
The Sons of Cain do not pursue us, and we arrive back at Prince Rupert’s lodgings an hour before it gets dark. Armand immediately calls upon Franz to summon a surgeon to tend to our wounds. Having sutured von Frankenthal’s and Prayer’s cuts, the surgeon examines Armand’s wrist and concludes that it is sprained. He binds it in linen and advises the French duellist to rest his hand for the next few days. We then bathe and have a quick dinner.
It isn’t long before we are joined by Bishop Henchman, to whom Armand gives a full report of the fight. The Bishop informs us that he had been unsuccessful in locating the temple beneath Saint Paul’s Cathedral. After assuring us that the guards he had positioned around the cathedral will alert us should the Sons of Cain appear, we retire for the night.
I wake early in the morning, dress and have a light breakfast with my fellow Hexenjäger down in the dining room. We converse sparingly, feeling the worse for wear. I spend the remainder of the day resting in my room, checking my weapons. It isn’t until after dinner that there is a knock on my door, and Armand informs me that Bishop Henchman has called a final meeting.
It is now late afternoon, the sun sinking into the west. Soon the denizens of London will be blowing out their candles and going to bed. But there will be no sleep for us. For tonight the Sons of Cain will attempt to summon the Antichrist, and we must do everything within our power to prevent this from happening.
We gather in the Prince’s study: a spacious room on the third floor, dominated by a central table surrounded by chairs, and often used by the Prince to host councils of war. In addition to the Bishop, Prayer and Dorian, we are joined by the three Angeli Mortis who have been searching for the altar beneath Saint Paul’s Cathedral.
The first of the English witch hunters to be introduced is Richard. He is perhaps in his mid-twenties and is clad in the black clothing typical of his order. A brace of three pistols is strapped across his chest. These are complemented by the swept-hilt rapier sheathed by his side, and a pair of thin-bladed throwing knives tucked into a leather sheath strapped to his left forearm. Like Prayer, a Latin inscription is tattooed across his forehead, but only its lower half is visible beneath the wide brim of his hat, which makes it impossible to read. Twin crucifixes are tattooed on his cheeks. He is quite portly, and has the ruddy complexion of someone who has taken a strict set of marriage vows to a tankard of claret.
The second of the Angeli Mortis, introduced as Jebediah, is perhaps forty years of age and studies everything with the alert eyes of a hawk. Apart from the long-barrelled pistol equipped on his belt, the only other weapon he carries is a heavy wooden cudgel, over four feet in length and as thick as von Frankenthal’s forearms. Its notched and scarred surface testifies that it has seen many battles.
The final English witch hunter, Valentine, is only a few years older than me. He has the look of a jester, with eyes that seem accustomed to laughter and lips that appear to be struggling to keep a smirk at bay. He reminds me of a friend I once had back in Dresden, a boy who could see the humorous side of any situation, however dire. Armand has trained my eye to note that the hilt of the rapier jutting between the folds of Valentine’s cloak, with its ‘S’ shaped cross-guard in the form of a snake and its engraved pommel in the shape of an apple – perhaps symbolic of Adam’s temptation in the Garden of Eden – is the type of blade carried only by a consummate swordsman. The worn state of the leather on the inside of the thumb and the outside of the index finger on Valentine’s right glove, where it has rubbed against the blade’s cross-guard, are testament that the rapier rarely slumbers in its scabbard.
Beneath the black cloak he wears a thick leather doublet, capable of withstanding a direct thrust from a blade, and a blood-red scarf is tied around his neck. His face is painted white and twin crucifixes dangle from his ears, but I can see no evidence of tattoos on the exposed skin of his face and neck. The outline of a pipe sticks out from the inside of his cloak. He obviously puts this pipe to good use, for the smell of tobacco hangs heavily on his breath.
‘So we’re in the same situation we were in before we rode out to the cemetery,’ von Frankenthal says dismally, sitting forward in his chair, favouring his sutured and bandaged back. ‘And all we’ve got to show for our efforts are a load of injuries.’
Prayer raises her palm commiseratively. ‘Don’t forget that we destroyed the satchel and delivered the last rites to one of the Forsaken, meaning that one of the Sons of Cain has lost its unholy powers and can be killed.’
‘But at a terrible price,’ Bishop Henchman says bleakly in German, evidently still shocked by the deaths of Witch Finder Blackwood and Brother Lidcombe.
Armand rises from his chair, walks over to one of the room’s windows and observes the neighbouring rooftops leading down to the Thames. ‘And are you any closer to locating the hidden temple?’
Bishop Henchman rubs his eyes wearily and gestures at Richard, Jebediah and Valentine. ‘We have only just returned from conducting yet another search, but we can find no trace.’
‘Are there any building plans kept on record?’ I ask.
Armand nods in an impressed manner. ‘That’s a good point.’
The Bishop shakes his head. ‘We’ve already checked. But the plans show nothing of a secret temple buried beneath Saint Paul’s. All that we can now do is keep a careful watch around the perimeter of the cathedral. Hopefully the Sons of Cain will lead us to the Altar of Sun.’
Armand chews his bottom lip in thought. ‘That’s risky. What if they slip past us?’
‘Then we will need to be extra vigilant,’ the Bishop says.
‘We seem to be forgetting that the Sons of Cain can be killed,’ Dorian announces, still looking out the window, his back turned towards us. ‘All that needs to be done is for the remaining Forsaken to receive the last rites.’
‘You make it sound easy,’ Francesca says. ‘But we’ve already tried that, and look what happened to us.’ She nods at von Frankenthal and Prayer, the left side of her face a stitched and swollen mess. ‘We’re lucky that any of us survived.’
‘I’m not keen to go back to the cemetery,’ I say in her support.
‘Nobody asked you to go,’ Dorian says bluntly, turning around, seemingly perceiving my caution as fear. ‘I’ll go by myself and complete what you failed to finish.’
I look away from Dorian, tired of his attitude. Conversations with him are comparable to eating something foul that lingers on the palate.
‘And how do you plan on doing that?’ Armand asks. ‘It’s not as if you’re just going to be able to walk unchallenged down to the Hanging Tree.’
‘It might be as easy as that,’ Dorian says. ‘I no longer have to worry about the Hell Hounds. And I’m sure that the Sons of Cain are going to be in London tonight, performing their black ritual in the temple.’
Armand clicks his tongue in a cautionary manner. ‘That’s one hell of a gamble you are prepare
d to take, riding out there alone. What if Alistair McClodden orders one of the horsemen to guard the tree? I’d do the same if I were in his position.’
Dorian shrugs. ‘Then I only have to deal with one of them. If I head off now, I can ride out to the cemetery, do what needs to be done, and return to London within two or three hours. Hopefully I will be back in time to help you locate the Altar of Sun. All I need is a priest to accompany me – someone who can deliver the last rites to the Forsaken.’
‘You won’t be riding out there with only one priest to assist you,’ Prayer objects. ‘I’ll come too.’
Dorian shakes his head. ‘No you won’t. I work best alone. You know that better than anybody here. Besides, you’re injured. All you’ll do is slow me down.’
Prayer stares at Dorian for some time, a hurt expression on her face. ‘Then may God protect you, Dorian. Because there will be nobody else there to watch your back.’
Dorian snorts contemptuously at her remark. He looks at Bishop Henchman and asks, ‘So can you organise a priest?’
‘I can see to that,’ the Bishop says, then turns to Armand. ‘I say we let him do it. It will be our last chance to kill the Sons of Cain. What do you think?’
Armand twirls an edge of his moustache, his eyes deep in thought. ‘If you think he can pull this off, then I have no objection.’
‘But how will we know if Dorian has been successful?’ I ask.
‘When we stab the Sons of Cain and they don’t get back up again,’ von Frankenthal says dryly.
‘We’d best get started.’ Bishop Henchman rises from his seat and crosses over to the study door, Dorian following after him. ‘It will be dark soon, and we don’t have much time. I have in mind a particular priest who will be up to the task of accompanying you out to the cemetery.’ He looks back at Armand. ‘There are some matters we still need to discuss. I’ll return once Dorian has set off.’
Armand catches Dorian before he exits the room. He extends a hand in good luck and says, ‘Godspeed.’
There was a time when the Frenchman would have demanded satisfaction for the rebuke Dorian had made out at the cemetery, and only considered the matter resolved when he drew the English witch hunter’s blood. But Armand has demonstrated great restraint in how he has dealt with this matter. Perhaps his appointment as Lieutenant has had a sobering effect on his cavalier attitude.
Pausing in the doorway, Dorian looks down at the proffered hand, a contemptuous expression on his face. ‘I’ll be back in a few hours,’ he says, refusing to shake Armand’s hand and exiting the room. ‘Try to see to it that no more of my order die in my absence.’
‘I must apologise for Dorian’s behavior,’ Prayer says once Armand returns to his seat. ‘He gives the Angeli Mortis a bad reputation. We aren’t all as uncivil as he is.’
Armand waves a hand dismissively. ‘You need not apologise for that. He is responsible for his own actions. Besides, one bad apple does not destroy the barrel. I’d be glad to have someone of your qualities join our order.’ He pauses as he jerks his chin at the three other members of the Angeli Mortis, who sit opposite us and have remained silent since joining us in the study. ‘And I’m sure your fellow witch hunters likewise do your order proud.’ He then says something in English to the three members of the Angeli Mortis, and they laugh softly in return.
‘As I am sure you have already worked out, none of my companions speak German,’ Prayer says.
Armand smiles. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against them.’ He gives a troubled look. ‘But I am concerned about Dorian. He obviously has a lot of pent-up anger. Why?’
I look expectantly at Prayer. With the possible exception of Bethlen and Diego Alvarez, a Spanish swordsman who tried to take Armand’s life during our mission to recover the Tablet of Breaking, I have before never met such a ruthless person as Dorian.
Prayer nods in agreement. ‘Yes, he does. But his real problem is that he loves too much.’ When she sees the confused looks on our faces, she elaborates: ‘Dorian was not always as he is now. Whilst you see him as cold and merciless, he was once a beautiful soul, at peace with himself and the world. But that was before the death of his wife and child. Dorian had everything he wanted in life. And then, in one fell swoop, he lost it all – everything he loved.’
There is a moment of silence before Armand says, ‘I’m sorry to hear this. When did it happen?’
‘Two years ago,’ Prayer says. ‘His wife and newborn son contracted the plague. Believing that God had sent the illness to punish humanity for our sinful ways, Dorian prayed for his family to recover. I have never seen anyone pray so hard. He didn’t leave the church for a week. He barely ate or slept. But that alone wasn’t enough to save his family. And when they died, Dorian blamed God for their deaths. I’m sure too, although he will never admit it, that he also blames himself, believing he wasted his time in prayer, when he could have been consulting apothecaries and searching for a way to save his family. And now he is determined to cross the divide into death, to bring back his wife and child.’
Armand lowers his eyes and absent-mindley fingers an end of the handkerchief tucked up his right sleeve. ‘Some divides are not meant to be crossed. And that is one of them.’
Prayer shrugs defeatedly. ‘Try telling that to Dorian. Sometimes I think his sole reason for joining the Angeli Mortis was to learn how to uncover the spells hidden within the Malleus Maleficarum. It is said that the text holds the secret to the Resurrection itself. I’m sure that’s what Dorian searches for, and he will not stop until he finds it.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ I ask.
Prayer nods. ‘Very. Last year I tried to help him unlock some of the mysteries of the Malleus Maleficarum, but at a terrible price. The tome enacts a heavy toll on those who are game enough – or foolish, I now think – to open its pages. Ever since that fateful day, my sleep has been haunted by tormented spirits. They come to me almost every night, lurking in the corner of my dreams, caught between Heaven and Hell.’ She pauses, tears welling in her eyes. ‘But Dorian’s price was greater still. He tried to raise the spirit of his deceased wife, except the spell went terribly wrong. Not everybody who dies rests peacefully. Some tortured souls are doomed to roam this earth for an eternity. Dorian now sees these ghosts everywhere, but he cannot communicate nor interact with them. He lives in a permanent nightmare.’
We sit in silence for some time, shocked by what we have heard. Francesca reaches across the table and places a comforting hand on Prayer’s arm. ‘You obviously care a lot about Dorian.’
‘How can I not?’ A tear rolls down Prayer’s cheek. She smiles sadly, rises from her seat and says something in English to the rest of the Angeli Mortis. They then make their way out of the room, but Prayer pauses in the doorway and looks back at us. ‘We have some preparations to make before we head off to Saint Paul’s. We will meet you at the foyer in an hour. Please do not take Dorian’s insults personally. He’s not angry with you – he’s angry with God. And the reason I care so much for him is simple: he is my younger brother.’
She exits the room and her companions follow after her, leaving us sitting in the uncomfortable silence.
Wrapped in the folds of my cloak, as if to shelter me against the enormity of the task we face, I exit Prince Rupert’s lodgings. I sit down on a stone bench, which is set against a hedge in the private section of a small garden close to the Prince’s apartments. I need some time to distance myself from all that is going on, and I am hardly able to do that back in the study, where Armand and von Frankenthal are checking their firearms and honing the edges of their swords. Each schlick of von Frankenthal’s blade on his whetstone reminds me of the perilous task that awaits us, eating away at my resolve like some cancerous growth.
A hot, dry wind has risen, coming from the east, rustling the leaves in the garden and sending clouds racing across the
darkening sky. It also brings with it the salty, seaside waft of the Thames, and carries the distant commotion of dockyard workers loading and unloading ships and the banging of unlocked shutters on distant windows. The gloom of the approaching night reflects my solemn mood perfectly, and I pull my cloak tightly around my neck and shuffle along the bench into the darkest section of the garden.
It’s only now I remember the book that the Ghost had dropped. I pull it out from my cloak and discover that it is an anthology of poetry printed in German. I flick through its creased and worn pages, pausing when I notice a message written on the inside cover. I tilt the book in the direction of the lamp hanging from above the front door of Prince Rupert’s lodgings. Leaning close, I read the note: To my dearest husband. May these poems comfort you during the long hours we are apart. With eternal love . . . The name at the bottom is obscured by a dark smudge, possibly blood or dirt.
I reflect on how this glimpse into the private life of the spy has altered my opinion of him. He has a wife somewhere, no doubt waiting anxiously for his return. I wonder if she is even aware that he is a member of le Secret du Roi, or if he has kept his true identity from her. Perhaps he is also a father, with a son just like me who dreams of following in his footsteps.
I return the book inside my cloak and think of my own father. The deeper I dig into his past, the greater the mystery surrounding his life and identity becomes. I honestly believed that I was going to find him in the Devil’s Bowels, and that we would be united once more. But I was greatly mistaken. All I discovered is that his past is clouded in secrecy. Rather than getting closer to learning the truth about him, he seems to be slipping further away from me like some elusive ghost. I desperately want to uncover some clear answers as to who he is; if anything, to help me understand who I am. But that will have to wait for the moment, for I need to remain alert, focused and prepared for the monumental task that faces us tonight.
