by Stuart Daly
She shakes her head and pushes me down the path. ‘We’ve got one last chance to escape with the Devil’s Bible. We can’t fail this time. We have no choice but to run.’
I do as instructed, but I can’t take my eyes off the combatants. Valentine and Fabricius stop in the middle of the laneway, leaving a gap of several yards between them. Whilst Valentine paces slowly to the left and right, his rapier raised and locked on Fabricius’s eyes, the Son of Cain just stands still, his sword lowered by his side.
Springing forward off his left leg, the Swede whips up his rapier with a speed that leaves me gaping, and thrusts it at Valentine’s torso. But Valentine is equally fast. He parries aside the attack and answers Fabricius’s thrust with a riposte that forces his opponent to weave to his right, lest he be left gagging on the yard of steel that almost punctured through his neck.
Withdrawing several steps, his blade held horizontally to keep the witch hunter at bay, Fabricius rolls his wounded shoulder testily and spits angrily. He reaches behind his back and produces a thin-bladed dagger with an extended cross-guard, drawing it up near his neck in preparation to strike. Not wanting to face an opponent armed with two blades, Valentine neutralises the Son of Cain’s advantage. The English witch hunter unfastens his cloak, wraps it around his left forearm and transforms it into a makeshift buckler, with which he will block incoming strikes. He says something to the Swede, his tone haughty, which makes Fabricius’s lips draw tightly in rage. The comment having achieved its desired effect – to anger Fabricius and provoke him to make a mistake – Valentine then leaps forward, determined to end this fight.
His rapier transformed into a slashing streak of silver, Valentine tries to find a weakness in Fabricius’s defences, forcing the Swedish slayer to use both his rapier and dagger to parry aside his attacks. Noting that his opponent is favouring his wounded left shoulder, Valentine focuses on Fabricius’s left side. The witch hunter delivers a series of thrusts and strikes that force the Swede to wheel around towards the warehouse until his back is pressed up against the wall. Their blades momentarily entangled, Valentine pushes in close towards Fabricius until their noses are almost touching. In a daring gesture designed to infuriate the Son of Cain, Valentine frees his left hand and pats the Swede on the head with his makeshift buckler.
By this time, Francesa and I have reached the end of the laneway. I wish Valentine luck, then follow after Francesca, the howling wind soon drowning out the sounds of combat.
The crossbow slung over her shoulder, Francesca assists me in carrying the codex, and we race through the twisting streets of London for several minutes. Eventually we stop, breathless, at the gateway of a small church. It is set several yards back from the road and hidden in darkness; the closest source of light being a streetlamp some distance over to our right. Dropping the codex, we rest our backs against one of the stone walls flanking the gate and spend a minute or so resting.
I peer anxiously at the shadowed entrance of the road we had just exited. ‘I hope Valentine has managed to stop the Sons of Cain from coming after us.’
‘I wouldn’t put anything past the Sons of Cain, especially Fabricius,’ Francesca says sceptically. ‘He’s managed to find us twice already. I’ve a bad feeling that we haven’t seen the last of him. Valentine is skilled with a sword, but he’s facing two supernatural enemies. I just don’t know how long he will be able to hold them off for. They may now be mortal, but they are incredibly strong fighters. Did you see how many wounds we inflicted on McClodden? And he was still standing!’ She gives me a faint, sad smile, as if in pity of what we have gone through this night – and what yet awaits us. ‘You should use this opportunity to get your pistols ready. We’ll need to continue moving.’
I kneel down, untie the gunpowder flask attached to my belt and start to reload my weapons. It’s not an easy task in the dark, particularly with my hands trembling nervously, and it is some time before I rise to my feet, my primed pistols tucked into my belt.
‘So what’s the plan?’ I move alongside Francesca and peer back across the road.
Francesca studies the rooftops of the neighbouring buildings. I reach instinctively for one of my firearms, fearing she has spotted Fabricius. ‘What is it?’ I whisper, trying to follow her line of sight, but unable to detect the Swedish killer’s black silhouette.
‘I’m sure I recognise this area from when we passed through here the other day, when we rode out to the Church of the Holy Trinity,’ Francesca says, much to my relief, and nods her head in the direction of a distant laneway. ‘That lane should lead us down to London Bridge. If we can make our way across to the southern suburbs, we may be able to steal some horses from one of the many farms located on the fringe of city. We could then escape from London, hit the country roads and keep riding until dawn. The Sons of Cain would never catch us. What do you think?’
‘Anything sounds good as long as it doesn’t involve us carrying this accursed codex for much longer.’ I rub my back to emphasise my point. ‘But seriously, I think it’s a great idea.’
Picking up the Devil’s Bible, we continue making our way through the streets of London and head south. It is when we are hurrying down a dark laneway – which I happened to notice is called Pudding Lane, as indicated by the crooked street sign hammered onto the wall of one of the corner houses – that we pull up sharply, place the codex on the ground and press our backs against the wall of the closest building. For we have been alerted by the sound of footfalls coming from behind.
Somebody is racing after us.
Our hearts pounding, we stare into the darkness to see a cloaked figure enter the laneway. A bloodstained, makeshift bandage is wrapped around their wounded left shoulder, and their drawn stiletto and rapier glisten in the moonlight.
‘Oh, dear God!’ Francesca gasps, whipping aside her cloak and drawing her talwar. ‘It’s Fabricius!’
Spotting us the instant we step out into the middle of the laneway, Fabricius laughs sadistically. He slows down to a brisk walk and slashes his sword through the air in a frustrated manner, no doubt incensed that we have managed to evade him twice this night, and determined that he will not make the same mistake again.
‘Your friend squealed like a pig as I slashed his throat,’ he taunts with a malicious smile.
‘You’re lying!’ I growl, hoping that Fabricius somehow managed to slip past Valentine, who is alive and well, keeping McClodden busy.
‘Am I, boy?’ Fabricius stares lasciviously at Francesca and licks his lips, as if savouring some morsel he is about to devour. ‘I won’t be taking her life too quickly. I have other plans in store for her.’
Enraged and repulsed, I swear under my breath, stand protectively in front of Francesca and draw Prince Rupert’s pistol. I take aim at Fabricius’s head and shoot. Only to have the Son of Cain raise his left hand – the one holding the stiletto – and utter the same diabolical command he used when we first encountered him back at the stream. The pistol ball hits the rippling magical force-field directly in front of his head and ricochets off onto the cobbles.
Some people in nearby houses cry out in alarm, woken abruptly by the report of my firearm. But I don’t care. We’re now fighting for our lives, and I intend to do anything I can to stop the Swedish slayer.
Cursing in frustration, I nonetheless notice that the air shimmered only immediately in front of Fabricius’s head and torso. I produce my remaining pistol, level it at one of Fabricius’s thighs and fire, hoping to cripple him.
But the firearm misfires, sending hissing, hot gunpowder over my hand. Crying out in pain, I toss aside the pistol. It lands amidst a stack of barrels half-concealed beneath a waxed-cloth cover, stored in a recess between two hovels on the opposite side of the laneway. With Fabricius only ten yards away from us now, I draw my rapier and am about to step forward to face the Son of Cain, when Francesca grabs me by the arm and pulls me
back.
‘Jakob!’ she yells, her eyes wide with terror. She points at the barrels.
My heart misses a beat when I notice that my pistol, having landed atop one of the barrels, has ignited what appears to be a small pile of black powder on its lopsided lid.
‘Please don’t tell me that’s gunpowder?’
Francesca responds to my question with swift, decisive action. She snatches up the Devil’s Bible and pulls me after her down the laneway, trying to gain as much distance as possible from the stack of gunpowder barrels before they explode.
We sprint desperately down the narrow laneway, the sound of footfalls behind us revealing that Fabricius is giving chase. But Francesca and I have covered little more than fifteen yards when – KABOOM! – the barrels go up, knocking us off our feet and filling the night with fire, smoke and debris. Sprawled on the cobbles, we cover our heads to shield ourselves from the storm of stone and wood that shoots through the air like canister shot from a cannon.
It seems to be an eternity before the air finally clears. I clamber to my feet, bleeding and aching from dozens of small lacerations and grazes, amazed to have even survived the blast. Francesca stirs by my feet, covered in lengths of shattered wood, too dazed to pick herself up and mumbling incoherently. She holds the side of her head, where she appears to have grazed herself on the cobbles.
Looking back up the laneway, I am horrified to see the result of the explosion. It is utter pandemonium. The houses flanking the recess in which the gunpowder had been stored have been obliterated, and the neighbouring buildings are ablaze. Whipped into an inferno by the hot, dry winds, the fire has already leapt across to nearby rooftops, which also catch alight.
In stark contrast to the deserted silence that had previously smothered the sleeping city, a crowd of confused Londoners have emerged. Some are screaming hysterically, terrified of the fire, which burns fiercely and uncontrollably and threatens to engulf their homes. Others are barking orders, trying to coordinate some sense of order in combating the flames, and are attempting desperately to put out the blaze with blankets and buckets of water. I cannot understand a word they are saying, but I can read the horror and fear on their faces. London is a city comprised of wooden buildings. If the fire is not contained and brought under control, it will spread as quickly as a spark ignited in a hay stack.
The smell of gunpowder hangs heavily in the air. A billowing trail of smoke is being blown across the night sky, appearing as a grey smear, laden with sparks and glowing cinders that threaten to set alight the shingled rooftops and timber facades of distant buildings. All is illuminated by a hellish red glow.
I shudder, realising that one part of Mother Shipton’s prophecy has come true – London will burn. I never thought in my wildest dreams that I would be the one responsible for starting it. And so much for not bringing any attention to ourselves. Even the dead would have been woken by the explosion. It’s best if Francesca and I make a quick exit.
I remove the debris covering Francesca, then drag her away from the blaze until she is out of harm’s reach. I remove her cloak and, using it as a makeshift pillow, prop her against the wall of the closest building. It’s only then that I remember the Devil’s Bible, and I scan the cobbles for where we must have dropped it. Unable to find it, I study the people hurrying about the lane, fearing that one of them may have taken the codex. Alerted by the cry of an elderly lady who has just been knocked to the ground, I spin around and finally spot the Devil’s Bible – gripped in Fabricius’s bloody hands as he barges his way down the laneway. He had been directly opposite the gunpowder barrels when they exploded and he took the full impact of the blast. His clothing is shredded, revealing exposed patches of scorched and bleeding skin. He drags his left foot, leaving a dark smear of blood across the cobbles.
‘Go after him!’ Francesca groans.
‘But what about you?’ I’m torn between going after the Son of Cain and leaving her.
Francesca makes an impatient gesture, silencing me. ‘I’ll be fine. I just need some time to rest. But you can’t let him escape with the Devil’s Bible. Now go, Jakob, before it’s too late.’
‘I’ll come back as soon as I can,’ I promise. I brush aside her matted hair to inspect the wound on her face, making sure that it is safe for me to leave her. Noting the injury is a graze and that Francesca is only concussed, I rush over to retrieve my rapier. I pause to check that the lady knocked over by Fabricius is not injured, then chase after the Swedish slayer.
In spite of his injuries, Fabricius is able to make it down to the end of the laneway and halfway up the next street before I catch him. Dropping the codex, he roars in frustration and whirls around to face me; his rapier and stiletto already drawn, glistening blood-red in the hellish glow cast by the distant inferno. I recoil in shock when I see the terrible state of his face, which is burnt almost beyond recognition.
‘Damn you to hell!’ he cries, capitalising on my moment of hesitation and lunging with his sword, its point aimed at my heart.
Surprised that he can still move with such speed, I barely manage to parry aside his attack, then shuffle back a few steps, granting me an extra second or two to read and respond to his moves. Drawing on the months of fencing practice I have had with Armand – and knowing that I should at first ascertain the extent to which Fabricius’s injuries have impacted on his fighting skills – I assume a defensive stance. I raise my rapier up to my chin, its blade horizontal to the ground, and its point directed at Fabricius’s eyes. I take an extra three steps back, ensuring that I am well out of striking range, then use the same tactic employed by Valentine: roll the folds of my cloak around my left hand to form a makeshift buckler to counter any thrusts from Fabricius’s stiletto.
Seeing the rage in Fabricius’s blazing eyes, I try my best to deliver a reckless smile, followed by a mocking laugh. Enraged, Fabricius pounces forward, almost catching me by surprise, each swish of his blade accompanied by a tirade of curses. As aggressive as his attack may be, it lacks its former precison, and I give ground easily, parrying aside his sword. But it is his stiletto that I really have to watch. The Swede is holding it before him, ready to entangle the blade of my rapier within the stiletto’s elongated cross-guard. And if that were to happen, this fight would be over in a second, ending with me lying on the ground, a yard of steel driven through my chest. But I am fortunate that Armand has been an excellent teacher in the art of swordplay. His rigorous training sessions have prepared me for an encounter with an opponent such as Fabricius, instructing me how to use my cloak to counter an enemy’s left-handed dagger.
As Fabricius lumbers forward, hindered by his injured left leg, and thrusts with his rapier at my chest, I dart to the right and wrap the fold of my cloak around his blade, entangling it. Our eyes lock. With a savage snarl, Fabricius then whips up his stiletto and drives it at my neck.
Anticipating such an attack, I dodge back to the left, drawing Fabricius past me. Carried forward by the momentum of his attack, I give a sharp tug on his entangled blade and, sticking out my right foot, trip him over. As soon as he hits the ground I lunge at his chest with my rapier, intending to skewer him. But Fabricius somehow manages to roll to the side, avoiding my blade, which strikes sparks on the cobbles.
Fabricius regains his feet with surprising speed and slashes his rapier at my head. I duck – the blade swishing through the air only an inch above my head – and retaliate with a swipe directed at Fabricius’s belly. Drawing back at only the last instant, standing on his toes, sucking in his stomach and arching his upper torso forward, he manages to avoid the attack.
We withdraw a few paces, our blades lowered as we catch our breath. Fabricius’s left shoulder is slumped, the bandage drenched in blood, and he is carrying his weight on his right leg. Having sustained such terrible injuries, it is nothing short of a miracle that he can still stand and wield a blade. But his eyes are st
ill blazing with rage and, in an attempt to catch me by surprise, he lunges forward, crossing the distance between us with startling speed, his sword darting out, its point aimed at my chest. A month or two ago I’m sure this attack would have ended my life, but Armand has taught me how to counter such a thrust, and I flick up my rapier, swatting aside Fabricius’s blade. In the same fluid motion, I riposte, plunging my rapier forward, its point aimed at Fabricius’s neck. The attack is instinctive – a manoeuvre practised well over a hundred times with Armand in the training hall at Burg Grimmheim – and I stare in awe as my blade punches through Fabricius’s neck, leaving him gagging on a foot of steel.
Marvelling at the idea that I have slain the Swedish killer, yet sickened by the sight of his convulsing form, I extract my blade. The Son of Cain falls to his knees, his blades slipping from his fingers to clatter on the cobbles. He is at death’s door, but with his dying breaths he manages one last malicious sneer.
‘You may have . . . killed me, boy,’ he gurgles in stilted German, his blood-choked words barely comprehensible. ‘But the . . . Order of Judas is coming. They will hunt and . . . exterminate every last . . . one of you.’
He shuffles on his knees in an attempt to reach the Devil’s Bible. A final spasm racks his body and his eyes roll back. He slumps to the ground, dead, his outstretched hand reaching for the codex.
Having sheathed my rapier and retrieved the Devil’s Bible, I make my way back to the laneway. Much to my surprise, I find Francesca supporting herself with an outstretched hand against one of the corner buildings. She has cut a makeshift bandage from the hem of her cloak and tied it around her forehead. She is breathing through the sleeve of her shirt, which she uses to filter the smoke that has engulfed the area. She looks exhausted, but her eyes have regained their alert spark.
