The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3

by Stuart Daly

  I look frantically over my shoulder and consider our options. We are still some fifty yards or so from where the stream joins the Thames, meaning that we won’t make it to the river in time. And the stream offers nowhere to hide or any means of escape: no jetties bordering its sides; the timber-framed walls and the stone foundations of the hovels lining the water’s edge offering nowhere to climb out. My great idea of using the rowboat has suddenly backfired, becoming a deathtrap.

  ‘All we can do is try to make it to the Thames,’ I say through clenched teeth, pulling with all my might on the oars, attempting to gain as much speed as possible. ‘Hopefully we can find a jetty or wharf where we can escape on foot. But we’ll never be able to make it unless you can work out some way of stalling Fabricius.’

  ‘It’s not going to be easy.’ Francesca twists around to take aim with her crossbow at the billowing cloud of smoke, which is now no more than ten yards away.

  She unloads the entire cartridge of bolts at Fabricius, but they zoom straight through the smoke, disappearing up the stream. That is, all but one, which thuds into something solid within the cloud, bringing it to a sudden stop. Amazed that one of Francesca’s bolts managed to hit the Son of Cain, we hesitate, waiting to see what damage it inflicted.

  Our eyes become acclimatised to the dark, and we see the cloud move haltingly over to the stone hovels lining the stream, the area illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, which lances through a break in the canopy of extending gables. The cloud then transforms into Fabricius. Chest deep in the water, he hangs onto the building’s foundations with his left hand, his right clasped around the shaft of the bolt lodged deep in his left shoulder. Biting back the pain, he pulls the bolt free, buries his head into his shoulder and screams in pain. But his scream soon turns into a roar of rage and he looks up to stare at us, his eyes burning with hatred.

  ‘We should move!’ I pull on the oars again, propelling us further away from the Son of Cain.

  ‘That shot did more than simply halt Fabricius for a few seconds,’ Francesca says, staring at the Swedish mercenary. ‘He’s wounded, and he’s not recovering.’

  My heart fills with hope. ‘You’re right. Dorian must have been successful at the Hanging Tree. That, or the spell that Brother Lidcombe broke was the one that made Fabricius immortal.’

  Francesca clips in a new cartridge of bolts into her crossbow. ‘Either way, Fabricius can now be killed.’

  ‘Perhaps we should finish him off.’ I release one of the oars and reach for a pistol tucked into my belt.

  ‘Not with your firearm,’ Francesca warns. ‘The report will alert all of London to our presence, and certainly draw the remaining Sons of Cain to this location.’

  ‘I never thought of that.’ I grab hold of the oar once more. ‘Then why don’t you finish him off with your crossbow?’

  In answer to my question, Francesca takes aim with her weapon and shoots a single bolt at Fabricius. Her shot is true, zipping through the darkness, heading straight for his heart. But Fabricius whips up his hand, palm open, and mutters a diabolical command. Just as the quarrel is about to thud into his chest, the air immediately in front of Fabricius shimmers and ripples, protecting him like an invisible force-field. The bolt comes to a jarring halt and drops harmlessly into the water. Fabricius uses the stone foundations of the hovel to drag his way after us.

  Francesca slings her crossbow over her shoulder. ‘I think I was lucky before. Perhaps he wasn’t even aware that he could be injured. But he won’t be making that same mistake again. This is far from over. Get us out of here as fast as you can!’

  I heave on the oars and we reach the Thames. Abandoning my initial plan of heading westward, I steer the boat over to the east, where a small jetty provides access into the city’s streets through an archway. Some thirty yards further down to the east, however, there is a second, larger jetty, extending from a narrow wooden platform that runs along the riverside for a short distance before ending at a shadowed gateway. And it is towards this second jetty that I start to row.

  ‘Shouldn’t we get off here?’ Francesca asks as I steer the boat past the first jetty.

  I shake my head. ‘I’m sure Fabricius thinks we’ll do exactly that. But we’re going to trick him.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Just trust me on this,’ I say, my heart pounding as I row the boat down to the second jetty and throw out the Devil’s Bible. Francesca and I then climb out. But before we pick up the codex, I slide on my stomach off the edge of the jetty and give the rowboat a firm shove with my feet, sending it back towards the first jetty. I hope that my simple ruse will fool Fabricius into believing that that is where we abandoned the boat. We pick up the codex and hasten across to the wooden platform, determined to disappear back into London’s labyrinth of twisting alleyways before Fabricius emerges from the stream and spots us.

  We race over to the gateway. Finding it unlocked, I say a silent prayer that we make it in time, then follow Francesca off the walkway as we head up the narrow alleyway beyond.

  After running for what must be over a quarter of an hour, Francesca and I pull into the doorway of a warehouse. Hidden in shadow, it offers a good hiding spot; the closest source of light being a streetlamp on the corner some distance over to our right.

  ‘We need to stop for a while,’ Francesca pants. ‘I can’t go on any further until I catch my breath.’

  I lean the Devil’s Bible against the wooden doorway. Sucking in air, my hands planted on my knees, I nod in agreement. I stare down the laneway, scanning the area illuminated by the streetlamp for movement. After a while I slump on the ground and rest my back against the door.

  I look up at Francesca. ‘We must have lost Fabricius by now. It feels as if we’ve run halfway across the city. Even I don’t know where we are anymore.’

  Francesca inspects the night sky in an attempt to get our bearings. ‘I think we’ve headed east, but I can’t be sure. These alleyways twist and turn so much, it’s impossible to tell which direction they head.’

  I tilt my head in question. ‘East? I thought we’d headed north?’

  Francesca removes her crossbow and massages her shoulder. ‘I’m sure we did at first, but then, back at that intersection by the tavern, where you were certain you saw Fabricius chasing after us, we started heading east.’ She pauses as she wipes a sleeve across her forehead. ‘But I wouldn’t be so convinced that we’ve lost Fabricius. I’ve never seen anybody track like him before. I’m sure he’s there somewhere, following our trail, narrowing down our lead.’

  I shake my head in bewilderment. ‘How can he do that? It’s not as if we’ve been making our way through a forest, leaving footprints in the earth and snapping branches for him to follow. And I doubt my trick back at the jetty fooled him for a second. I might as well have left a trail of breadcrumbs.’

  Francesca shrugs uncertainly. ‘Perhaps it’s a skill he acquired from the Devil. But I don’t think we’re going to be able to find somewhere to hide the codex; not with Fabricius tracking our every move.’

  ‘Then we’ll keep moving, until dawn if need be.’ I push myself back up to my feet, but wince at the mere thought of having to continue running. A drop of rain falls onto my shoulder, and I look up curiously into the night sky, surprised that this would happen on such a hot, dry night. ‘He can’t get his hands on the Devil’s Bible if he can’t catch us.’

  Francesca raises a hand, signalling for me to wait. ‘Just give me a few more seconds.’

  My fingers cramped from carrying the heavy codex, I use this opportunity to massage some life back into them, and wonder what has become of our companions. I thought, not too long ago, that I heard the sound of steel clanging on steel, carried by the breeze from somewhere not too far away. But then the wind abated; the night disturbed only by the sounds of our heavy breathing and our footfalls
on the cobbles. I’m hopeful that Armand found our remaining companions and informed them of his plan to lure the Sons of Cain away from Francesca and me. Perhaps we had heard one of our friends facing the demonic soldiers, locked in a savage fight. But now, in a cruel twist of fate, we are lost within the city and being hunted by Fabricius. I don’t think things could be much worse.

  As I go to tell Francesca we should continue moving, a cloaked figure, their features hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, skids to a halt at the illuminated intersection at the far end of the laneway. The stranger looks both left and right, as if considering their options, before racing straight towards us.

  In less than a heartbeat, Francesca and I have our crossbow and pistol locked on the figure, who comes towards us at breakneck speed, their drawn sword glistening in the moonlight.

  ‘I’ll hold him off,’ I say, believing it is Fabricius, and stand protectively in front of Francesca. ‘You need to escape with the codex.’

  Francesca grabs me by the shoulder and shoots me an incredulous look. ‘What? And leave you to face him on your own? Not on your life!’

  ‘You don’t have a choice!’ I pull myself free and step out from the darkness of the doorway to take position in the middle of the laneway. I stare down the barrel of my pistol, taking aim at Fabricius’s heart. ‘You need to leave right now. GO!’

  ‘Forget it, Jakob.’ Francesca rushes over to join me. ‘I’m not leaving you.’

  I go to push her back, but catch myself when the cloaked figure – now only some ten yards away – lifts their head as if to inspect what lies beyond in the shadows. Moonlight falls across the features beneath their hat.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Francesca and I lower our weapons.

  For it is Valentine.

  The English witch hunter gets the fright of his life when he finally sees us, pulling up sharply and whipping up his blade. It’s only when I call his name that his eyes flash with recognition and he lowers his sword. He clutches a hand over his heart to emphasise the shock we gave him, and comes over to pat us on the shoulders. Having evidently been running for some time, he plants his hands on his hips and takes some deep breaths. He stares fearfully over his shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’ I follow his line of sight down the laneway, only now realising that he was running away from someone – or something.

  Valentine cannot speak a word of German, but he infers the meaning of my question when he sees me staring past him, my pistol held uncertainly in a half-raised position. He produces his own pistol and aims the barrel at the far end of the laneway. Alarmed, Francesca and I do likewise, and the three of us stand there, staring at the illuminated intersection. Some time passes before the English witch hunter relaxes and thumbs his pistol’s firing pin back into a half-cocked position, satisfied that he is no longer being pursued.

  But then a figure appears at the end of the laneway – the distant streetlight glistens on the edge of the massive two-handed claymore gripped in their hands.

  It is Alistair McClodden.

  Valentine hurries Francesca and me into the warehouse’s doorway, where we peer at the leader of the Sons of Cain. He has stopped in the middle of the intersection and is staring down the laneway, as if searching for Valentine. Bracing our backs against the door, we once again conceal our weapons beneath our cloaks so that they won’t glisten in the darkness and give us away. We wait with bated breath, hoping that the night will hide us and that the Scotsman will continue along the adjacent street. After a few agonising seconds, McClodden decides to do just that, and I breathe a sigh of relief when he disappears around the corner.

  Certain that the coast is clear, I step out from the recess. Another drop of rain falls, this time landing on my hand, and runs in between my fingers. Surprised by its slimy texture, I raise my hand up to my eyes, only to realise that it is not rain at all – but blood!

  I step back in shock and accidentally knock over the Devil’s Bible, which I had propped up against the door. It hits the cobbles with a dull thud.

  Staring at the intersection, I see McClodden tear around the corner and thunder towards us, his two-handed sword heaved back over his shoulder, ready to cut us down.

  Another drop of blood splatters on the brim of my hat.

  I look up and recoil in shock when I come face to face with the black-cloaked shadow perched on the gable directly above me, blood dripping from its eyes.

  ‘You honestly didn’t think you could outrun me, did you?’ Fabricius hisses in stilted German, his voice sounding like a blade being drawn from a scabbard. ‘You’ve run your race. Now it’s time to die!’

  Fabricius drops from the roof and lands on the cobbles on all fours. He lashes at me with a kick, making the wind explode from my chest and sending me crashing into the warehouse door. Before I have time to recover, there is a flash of silver as Fabricius draws a stiletto from the inside of his boot, springs to his feet and thrusts the blade at my torso. With a speed I never knew I possessed, I dart to the left, narrowly avoiding the blade, which thuds into the door. But I don’t see Fabricius’s right elbow lash out until it is too late – it thuds into the side of my head and sends me staggering down the laneway, my vision swimming.

  Stunned but at least having the presence of mind to raise my pistol, I spin around and take aim at the Son of Cain, only to find that Francesca has come to my rescue. She forces Fabricius to withdraw back up the laneway with several wild swipes of her talwar. And then there is Valentine, whose pistol is aimed at McClodden. The Son of Cain tears towards the English witch hunter with his claymore now held above his head in preparation to deliver a devastating blow.

  With my line of vision to Fabricius blocked by Francesca, I redirect my pistol at the Scotsman, blink some clarity back into my eyes, take aim and fire. Valentine discharges his gun only a split second after me, and McClodden’s massive frame spasms as he is shot twice in the chest. Rather than drop dead, he gives a blood-curdling roar born of rage and pain, crosses the remaining distance to Valentine and heaves his sword. It swipes through the air like the vane of a windmill spun by an immense gale. But the attack is slow, and Valentine ducks beneath the blade, allowing it to hum through the air a hand span above his head. As McClodden follows through with his attack, his sword sweeping around him in a wide arc, drawing up behind his head again, Valentine whips out his rapier and counter attacks. As I had correctly surmised when I had first noted the worn section of leather on the inside of Valentine’s glove, he is a skilled swordsman. His blade snakes out, cutting a deep gash across McClodden’s right thigh, delivering a wound that would mark the certain incapacitation of any normal opponent. But McClodden, the Demon of Moray Firth, is not just any regular opponent, and he drives the knee of his injured leg forward, slamming it into Valentine’s face, and sends him sprawling on the ground.

  Valentine scrambles back, trying to regain his feet, his rapier held defensively before him, but McClodden is thirsting for blood. The Son of Cain kicks Valentine’s sword aside, twists his claymore around so that it is pointing blade down and drives it at the English witch hunter. At just the last moment, Valentine parts his legs, and the point of the heavy sword strikes sparks on the cobbles between his thighs. Valentine tries again to scramble to his feet, but McClodden moves forward and drives the heel of his boot into Valentine’s chest, knocking him back to the ground, where his head hits the cobbles with a sickening thud.

  As McClodden draws back his blade, I snatch the second pistol from my belt, palm back the firing pin, take aim at the Scotsman and fire. The pistol ball hits McClodden in the left shoulder, spins him like a top and forces him to drop his sword, which clatters on the ground. Seizing the opportunity, Valentine retrieves his rapier and climbs to his feet. He staggers back to join me, too dazed to continue the fight, wincing in pain as he rubs the back of his head.

  Still holding back Fabricius with her
swinging talwar, Francesca glances over her shoulder and spots the Devil’s Bible lying on the ground near the warehouse door. ‘Jakob – the codex!’

  As I rush over to collect the Devil’s Bible, Fabricius’s eyes lock on me, then on the codex gripped in my hands. Dancing effortlessly away from Francesca’s blade, he positions himself over near McClodden. He parts his cloak and, with his lips set in a malicious sneer, draws his rapier. He performs this action slowly, as if savouring the hiss made by the blade as it clears its sheath.

  ‘Get away from him!’ I warn Francesca, recalling Witch Finder Blackwood’s comment that Fabricius is a master swordsman. I am also alarmed that Fabricius has only now decided to draw his sword, as if he had considered Francesca’s efforts to kill him as nothing more than an entertaining distraction.

  Francesca rushes back to join Valentine and me, sheathes her talwar and produces her repeating crossbow. ‘Look at McClodden,’ she says. ‘His wounds are not healing.’

  ‘Dorian must have succeeded at the Hanging Tree,’ I say, believing for the first time that there might be a slim chance of surviving this encounter. Blood is flowing freely from the deep gash across McClodden’s thigh, and his buff coat is stained by two spreading pools of blood where he was shot.

  McClodden raises a hand, points at us and growls a command to Fabricius. The Swedish slayer advances towards us, his stride measured and controlled, his eyes locked on the codex held in my hands. His blade is held low, its point trailing down near his boots, suggesting that facing us will prove to be no challenge at all.

  Valentine barks some command in English to Francesca and me, and points to the far end of the laneway, indicating that we are to escape in that direction. He then steps forward to confront Fabricius.

  I turn to Francesca. ‘We can’t leave him to face the Sons of Cain by himself!’