The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3

by Stuart Daly

  ‘Fabricius!’ I stammer.

  Armand nods. ‘I fear that he is stalking these streets, hunting us. You will need to be on your guard more than ever. The Angeli Mortis had been taken by surprise. Neither Richard nor Jebediah had the chance to draw a weapon.’

  I look fearfully past Armand, back towards the street, expecting to see the Swedish mercenary suddenly materialise out of the darkness. ‘Remember what the Bishop told us about Fabricius when he had campaigned in Flanders?’ I whisper. ‘He snuck into enemy strongholds under the cover of night and slit the throats of his enemies. It was as if he could blend into the night. He could be out there somewhere this very instant, sneaking right up on us. We wouldn’t even see him coming until it was too late.’

  ‘As I said, we will need to be extra vigilant.’ Armand’s tone is calm and controlled.

  ‘But how did Fabricius get past the sentries placed at the gates in the old wall?’ I ask.

  Armand shrugs uncertainly. ‘Perhaps he was already inside the old city before the guards took position. He might have also climbed over the city walls, correctly anticipating that the city gates would be watched.’

  ‘Have you warned the others?’ Francesca queries.

  ‘I was able to find Prayer and Valentine,’ Armand says. ‘They have taken to the rooftops and are waiting for the first two Sons of Cain to come up from London Bridge. The last I saw of von Frankenthal was when he was heading off to the alleyway to the north-east of the cathedral more than an hour ago.’

  ‘Then anything could have happened,’ I say, concerned. ‘Shouldn’t one of us go and check on him?’

  ‘I planned on doing that straight after I had warned you.’ Armand jerks his chin at the stone lid that sits ajar on the grave. ‘But it seems as if you have made an important discovery.’

  ‘We are certain that the Son of Cain who came up this road disappeared down here,’ Francesca says. ‘We think this grave gives access to an underground tunnel that leads to the temple.’

  Armand’s eyes flash in alarm and he gestures for us to help him lift the heavy stone slab off the grave. Placing it on the ground, we peer into the hole and detect a roughly hewn, narrow flight of stone stairs burrowing into the earth. They descend for some fifteen feet before leading into a tunnel, which is illuminated by the wan glow of a distant light, as if a lantern or torch has been lit somewhere down below.

  Armand places Jebediah’s staff on the ground and parts his cloak to draw his mortuary blade with his left hand. ‘Nice work,’ he commends, staring down the flight of stairs. ‘I’m sure this is the entrance to the temple. But we’re not going to raise the alarm just yet.’

  Francesca’s eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  Armand clicks his tongue in thought for a moment. ‘If we raise the alarm, our companions will rush to this location. But it will also draw the Sons of Cain straight to us. And we still don’t know where the Devil’s Bible is. It might be being carried by the two Sons of Cain approaching from the south-east, and we don’t want to tip them off that Prayer and Valentine are awaiting them. But it might also have already been taken into the temple by the Son of Cain who descended these stairs.

  ‘Perhaps it is better for us to go down into the tunnel by ourselves. We can sneak up on the lone Son of Cain and see what he is up to. I’m hoping that he will have the Devil’s Bible on him. And if that’s the case, then we’ll take it. Whilst two of us keep him occupied, one of us should be able to escape with the codex. With any luck, that person will be able to make it out of the tunnel and disappear into the streets of London before the remaining Sons of Cain arrive here.’

  ‘But what if we don’t make it out in time, and the Sons of Cain trap us down there?’ I ask.

  Armand gives me a confident look. ‘London Bridge is a considerable distance from here. My guess is that the other two Sons of Cain who have entered the city are still several minutes away from us. If we are quick, we can pull this off.’

  ‘But shouldn’t there be a person to keep watch?’ I persist. ‘To warn the others if anyone approaches the tunnel entrance, hopefully giving them enough time to make their way out?’

  Armand shakes his head. ‘I don’t think it’s wise for any one of us to remain, given what happened to Richard and Jebediah. A Son of Cain has evidently gone down this passage. It may have been Fabricius. But for all we know the Swedish slayer is still stalking the night, hunting us. I fear he would kill whoever stayed behind before they even knew he had snuck up on them. I know this sounds strange, but it will be safer down in the tunnel. Now, are you with me?’

  Francesca and I exchange a brief look, during which I see the resolve mirrored in her eyes. ‘Of course we are,’ I say for the both of us, knowing that neither Francesca or I would allow Armand to venture into the tunnel alone, particularly with his primary sword-arm injured. I’m so nervous that it takes every ounce of self-control to stop my voice from trembling.

  Armand smiles proudly, pulls his cloak behind his shoulders to grant his arms greater freedom of movement and – with his mortuary sword raised warily before him, its blade held parallel to the angle of the stairs – enters the grave. ‘Stay behind me and make no sounds,’ he whispers, his eyes trained on the glow of light in the tunnel below. ‘We’re going to catch this abomination off-guard and give him a yard of steel for supper.’

  Well, at least one of us is confident, I think to myself as I follow two steps behind Armand. For I doubt the French duellist is going to be serving any meals of steel. On the contrary, I fear the Son of Cain is going to feast on a banquet tonight, and we’re going to be the main course.

  We descend the stairs with extreme caution, fearful of even breathing too loudly lest it echo along the tunnel and alert the Son of Cain. Reaching the end of the stairs, we find ourselves staring down a long, narrow tunnel, its walls and roof made of large blocks of stone. Fortunately, the floor is made of compacted earth, which absorbs and muffles the scuffing of our boots. As we had observed from the graveyard, the tunnel is illuminated by a distant light, but we still cannot discern its source for, some twenty yards ahead, the passage turns sharply to the right.

  We follow Armand and eventually reach the turn. Signalling for us to stop, Armand braces his back against the wall and spies around the corner. After a few seconds he pulls back, raises a finger to his lips and motions for Francesca and me to have a look.

  Brushing past the Frenchman, we peer around the corner and I recoil instantly. The tunnel extends for a further forty yards before leading into a small chamber, its walls pockmarked with small niches in which dozens of lit candles are set. A stone altar stands in the centre of the room, upon which is set a massive leather-bound book – the Devil’s Bible! Kneeling in front of it, his back turned towards us and his head lowered as if in prayer, is a man wearing a metal chest-guard and pot-helmet.

  Thomas Whitcliff.

  Armand motions for us to follow him several yards back from the corner. He jerks his thumb at his chest, then points at his drawn blade, indicating that he is going to face the Son of Cain. He points at Francesca and me, makes a grabbing gesture and points back at the stairs, signifying that we are to snatch the Devil’s Bible and run for our lives. We nod in understanding and sheathe our blades, preparing ourselves for when we will have to carry the heavy codex.

  Armand gives one of his reassuring smiles, produces his handkerchief and ties it around the cross-guard of his sword. With a flick of his blade, he motions for Francesca and me to follow him around the corner.

  Wrapped in the folds of our black cloaks in an attempt to blend in with the shadows, we sneak along the tunnel, our eyes locked on Whitcliff, fearing that he will turn around at any moment and spot us. When we are halfway to the chamber, the Son of Cain suddenly stands. Armand flicks up a hand, signalling for us to stop. My heart racing, I watch the demonic soldie
r reach into a pocket and place something on the altar. He then reassumes his position, kneeling before the Devil’s Bible.

  We breathe a collective sigh of relief, and Armand motions for us to continue moving. It seems to take an eternity before we reach the entrance to the chamber, where Armand rolls his shoulders in preparation for combat. He spares a brief glance at us, ensuring that we are ready. Then he raises his blade, kisses its honed edge and, in the blink of an eye, darts into the temple, catching the Son of Cain off-guard.

  The impetus of Armand’s charge and his swinging blade – which hacks into Thomas Whitcliff’s lower neck, in the gap between his helmet and body armour – sends him sprawling into the altar, which crashes heavily to the ground. Francesca and I race past Armand and the Son of Cain, who is lying motionless on the floor, and collect the Devil’s Bible. We race out of the temple.

  With Armand trailing only a few yards behind us, covering our retreat, we hasten down the tunnel. Francesca and I find it too difficult to carry the codex between us in the narrow passage, so the Italian draws her talwar and falls back to join Armand. Perhaps it’s just a figment of my imagination, but the codex seems to emit an aura of evil. Touching its worn leather surface makes me feel as though I’m in the presence of one of the Watchers. It fills me with such a profound sense of foreboding that my stomach knots in fear and the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  Turning the corner, we reach the base of the stairs, believing that we may be able to escape with both the codex and our lives. The fact that Whitcliff has not given chase makes me hopeful that perhaps Dorian was successful at the Hanging Tree, and Alistair McClodden and his three demonic henchmen can now be killed. When we are halfway up the stairs, however, a blood-curdling roar reverberates up the tunnel from the temple.

  Thomas Whitcliff has regained his senses. And he’s going to come after us with a fury that would send Hell’s legions scurrying.

  Armand chases Francesca and me out of the small graveyard and points with his sword westward, towards the distant fortified gate set in the Roman wall encircling the medieval heart of the city. ‘Head that way. Disappear into the streets, then hide the Devil’s Bible and guard it until dawn. By that time it will be too late for the Sons of Cain to summon the Antichrist.’

  Carrying the codex between us, Francesca and I start to race down towards Ludgate, but we have only moved a few yards when I pull up sharply and stare back at Armand, who has not moved. He stands in the middle of the street, looking back at the graveyard, his whistle held between his lips, its silver surface glistening in the darkness.

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ I ask, already knowing the answer I will receive.

  Armand shakes his head and removes the whistle. ‘I’m going to buy you the time you need to make your escape.’ His eyes are still locked on the entrance to the temple. ‘I’m going to draw Whitcliff – and hopefully all of the Sons of Cain, for that matter – after me.’

  ‘But they’ll kill you!’ I protest. ‘The simple fact that Whitcliff is still standing after the blow you dealt him is irrefutable evidence that Dorian was not successful. The Sons of Cain are still immortal. You won’t stand a chance against them.’

  ‘Not on my own, I won’t,’ Armand says, finally looking back at Francesca and me. ‘But if I can summon von Frankenthal, the remaining Angeli Mortis, and Bishop Henchman and his guards to help me, then hopefully we’ll be able to lure the Sons of Cain over to the opposite side of the city, far away from you and the Devil’s Bible. With any luck, we’ll be able to lose them. By that time, you and Francesca should have hidden the codex. We’ll then all meet at Prince Rupert’s lodgings at dawn. Now go, my friends, before it is too late.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Francesca warns.

  Despite the severity of our predicament, Armand gives one of his trademark roguish grins. ‘“Careful” is my middle name. Now go.’

  Not wanting to abandon Armand but aware that his plan offers us with the best possible chance of success, Francesca and I race reluctantly down the street, lugging the Devil’s Bible between us. We are only halfway down towards the Ludgate entrance when a shrill, piercing sound cuts through the night.

  We stop and turn towards the cathedral, where Whitcliff has emerged from the tunnel and Armand has blown his whistle in an attempt to draw the Son of Cain after him. When we hear the sound of what appears to be two sets of feet sprinting away in the opposite direction, we know that Armand’s ruse has been successful.

  ‘Let’s hope he makes it back to Prince Rupert’s lodgings,’ Francesca whispers, her eyes locked on the far end of the street, where we had last seen the French duellist.

  ‘If anyone can outrun the Sons of Cain, it will be Armand,’ I say. ‘But he wouldn’t be happy knowing that we are just standing here in the middle of the street. Come on. We need to find somewhere safe to hide the codex.’

  We move further down the street. It isn’t long before we pass through the fortified gate in the medieval wall and head down the street that lies beyond. Although we have no idea as to where we are going, we know that we must take the Devil’s Bible as far away from the Sons of Cain as possible.

  We continue westward through the city, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the yellow pools of light cast by the street lamps. Finally, we reach a narrow bridge across a filthy stream, which runs northward from the Thames and cuts through the city like a brown scar. Half-timbered houses line its banks and their extending gables jut out over the water, in some parts coming so close that they give the appearance of a black tunnel, encompassing the water. Noticing a rowboat moored to one of the bridge’s wooden pylons, I steer Francesca over to the side of the street, just where the bridge begins.

  I peer down at the rowboat and note a small wooden jetty at the base of the embankment. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ Francesca asks, following my line of sight.

  Having placed the Devil’s Bible on the ground, I climb over the bridge’s side rail. ‘It mightn’t take the Sons of Cain long to learn of Armand’s diversion.’ I make my way down to the boat. ‘They’ll then start searching the streets for us, and I don’t relish the thought of being hunted through the twisting alleyways of London by Fabricius. But what if we don’t take to the streets? What if we rowed out into the Thames and travelled downstream? We could sail right out of London and pull up in a secluded section of the countryside. Not even Fabricius would be able to track us then. The Sons of Cain would never find us.’

  Francesca nods eagerly. ‘Better still, we could even just stay in the boat, floating in the middle of the river further downstream.’

  ‘So you think it’s a good idea?’ I ask.

  ‘Jakob, I think it’s brilliant,’ Francesca says excitedly. ‘Let’s do it.’

  We are soon rowing down the stream, gliding beneath the archway of overhanging gables, slowly but steadily making our way through the darkness towards the Thames. Whilst I row, Francesca sits in the rear of the vessel, looking over her shoulder back at the bridge to ensure that we have not been followed.

  ‘This is too easy,’ she whispers at length, shifting into a more comfortable position. The Devil’s Bible lies at her feet. ‘It feels as if we are cheating. I’m so glad you thought of this.’

  ‘I figured it would be the easiest and safest way for us to disappear out of London,’ I say, feeling quite proud of myself. ‘We’ll reach the Thames shortly. Once we’ve reached the middle of the river, we’ll head west. Even if the Sons of Cain are clever enough to search the Thames, I very much doubt they’d be able to see us. It’s pitch black out there. And even if they do, they’ll never be able to spot the Devil’s Bible at the bottom of the boat. I . . .’

  The words are caught in my mouth when I see a swirling black cloud emerge from the street we had exited. Alerted by the look on my face, Francesca turns around quickly, and we wat
ch the cloud pull up sharply at the side of the bridge, right where we climbed over the rail to reach the jetty. We blink against the impossibility of what we are witnessing – the cloud transforms into a man wrapped in the folds of a black cloak and wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He swings over the bridge rail in one fluid motion and lands on the jetty, then kneels down to inspect the pylon to which the rowboat had been fastened. The man rises to his feet, turns and stares down the stream towards us, scanning the darkness for movement.

  ‘This can’t be good,’ Francesca whispers, readying her repeating crossbow. ‘Who is it?’

  Having stopped rowing the instant the cloud appeared so as to not make any noise and give away our position, I stare fearfully at the cloaked figure. I recognise him as one of the Sons of Cain I encountered in the crypt beneath the cemetery. ‘It’s Fabricius.’

  We sit with bated breath, unable to remove our gaze from the Son of Cain, who hasn’t moved and stares across the water like a hunting dog scanning a thicket for game. Then, as the gentle current pushes us slowly down the stream, we glide beneath a break in the overhanging gables and enter a pool of moonlight. I pull desperately on the oars, steering us out of the patch of light, and back into the darkness.

  But it is too late.

  Fabricius snaps upright, transforms back into the billowing black cloud and shoots towards us, flying a foot above the surface of the stream.

  ‘Jakob, get us out of here!’ Francesca yells, snatching the crossbow off her shoulder and slamming in a cartridge of bolts.

  ‘I’m doing my best.’ I heave desperately on the oars, trying to increase our speed, but knowing that we will never be able to outrun Fabricius, who is gaining on us fast.