The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3

by Stuart Daly

  ‘You shouldn’t be up.’ I prop the codex against the building and support Francesca with my shoulder.

  ‘It’s too dangerous to stay in this area.’ She looks back at the inferno, which has spread to even more houses. ‘The exploding gunpowder barrels would have woken up the entire city.’

  Finding it difficult to breathe, I raise the hem of my cloak to my mouth. ‘But you’re hurt.’

  Francesca lowers her sleeve and smiles bravely. ‘I’m going to have a cracking headache tomorrow, but the dizziness is subsiding with each passing minute. I’m fine to move, as long as I take it easy.’ She looks down at the Devil’s Bible and exhales in a relieved manner. ‘You caught Fabricius. I hope you weren’t hurt?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m fine. But Fabricius was badly injured from the explosion.’ I pause for a moment, shivering as I think back to the final moment of the battle, when I plunged my rapier through his neck. ‘I don’t think you could have called it a fair fight.’

  Francesca gives me an earnest look. ‘Don’t underestimate your skill with a sword. A little over a month ago I’m sure Fabricius would have escaped with the codex, and I would have found you lying dead in some street. But you’ve become a skilled fighter, Jakob. I wouldn’t have told you to go after him if I didn’t think you had it in you.’

  ‘You’re just being polite,’ I say.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Francesca says, and I am stirred by the conviction in her voice. ‘I’ve seen you train with Armand and Alejandro de la Cruz. I’ve heard them talk about how quickly you learn, and how far your fencing skills have progressed in such a short period of time. They think you have the making of a great swordsman.’ She pauses and gives me a sheepish look. ‘Truth be known, I’m actually quite jealous, because you’ve already surpassed my skill with a blade.’

  Armand has often praised me, calling me a model student. But I never knew that both he and Alejandro saw such promise in me. Perhaps I have underestimated my ability after all. Reflecting back on the fight with Fabricius, I had remained calm the entire time, and many of my attacks and ripostes had been instinctive.

  ‘Armand is an excellent instructor,’ I say modestly, but swelling with pride. I pick up the codex, hook it under my left hand and help Francesca down the next street.

  We head south, moving through the gathering crowd of people drawn out by the fire, and it isn’t long before we reach the banks of the Thames and London Bridge. Although I had seen the bridge when we first arrived in London, there had been so many sights for my eyes to behold that I had only paid the bridge a cursory glance. It is only now, in fact, standing before the landmark, and having spent the last hour being chased through the city’s twisting warren of alleyways and streets, that I can appreciate its size – and it is awe-inspiring.

  The bridge stretches from one side of the Thames to the other. It is set above the river on twenty massive arches, which are buttressed on stone piers that rise out of the dark water and are surrounded at water-level by wooden pontoons. A number of waterwheels are constructed alongside some of the pontoons, utilising the flow of the river to grind grain or pump water into wooden tubes that appear to lead back into the city.

  Constructed atop the bridge is a crowded mass of timber-framed shops and houses, most reaching six storeys high, and with projecting terraces, gables and balconies that jut out over the river. The roadway burrows through the ground floors of the buildings, forming a tunnel through which pedestrians are forced to pass. The area is illuminated every dozen or so yards by lanterns, hanging from metal poles set above the doorways. Although the bridge is now deserted, wagons, carts and stacks of barrels line the roadway; evidence that the bridge is one of the city’s principal areas of commerce and trade. Punctuating the mass of buildings are three sections of open space, the largest being in the middle of the expanse, where a drawbridge, lowered over the central arch, serves as part of the roadway.

  A small group of guards – no doubt the sentries assigned by Bishop Henchman to alert us when the Sons of Cain crossed London Bridge – have taken position at the beginning of the bridge roadway. They are looking worriedly to the north, staring up over the rooftops at the distant fire and are barring entrance onto the bridge, possibly as a means of preventing the spies they believed to be in the city from escaping. A few people, alarmed by the fire and hoping to flee south, have already made their way down to the Thames, only to be turned away by the guards, one of whom accompanied Francesca and me during our chase after the Ghost. He recognises us and allows us to pass.

  We head out across the bridge, passing through the tunnel beneath the buildings. Making slow but steady progress, we eventually reach the section of open space containing the lowered drawbridge. Deciding to take a brief rest, we carry on into the opening of the next section of the tunnel, where we stop in a dark recess between two wagons parked along the shopfronts. It offers a perfect resting spot, set several yards back from the perimeter of light cast by the closest lantern and sheltered from the howling wind. As Francesca sits down to wipe her face with a damp handkerchief, I place the Devil’s Bible on the ground, pace back and forth restlessly, and massage some life back into my left hand, which has gone numb from carrying the codex.

  ‘I wonder how Armand and the others are faring.’ I glance through the burrowing roadway, to the old medieval heart of the city. ‘We might have made it out alive, but they’re still back there, running and fighting for their lives.’

  ‘They stand a much better chance of surviving now that the Sons of Cain can be killed.’ Francesca closes her eyes and squeezes the water from her handkerchief over her face. ‘But I wouldn’t get too confident just yet; we’re still not out of the city.’

  ‘At least we’re already halfway across the bridge,’ I say optimistically, looking southward, ‘and it won’t be long before –’

  ‘What is it?’ Francesca asks, alarmed.

  I take a step deeper into the shadows and reach for my silver-bladed rapier. Rising warily to her feet, Francesca follows my line of sight down through the tunnel, where, at the southern end of the bridge, she finally spots what has made me freeze.

  A swarm of furies have amassed on the bridge. They are commanded by the grey-haired figure who stands several yards behind them, his form visible in the lantern-light that streams from a bracket on a nearby wall.

  ‘The Warlock of Lower Slaughter!’ Francesca gasps.

  ‘How did he know that we would come this way?’ Francesca asks, dumbfounded.

  I shake my head. ‘It’s almost as if the Sons of Cain can follow the Devil’s Bible. I don’t know if you can feel it, but the book emits an evil aura. I noticed it the second we stole the codex. Just touching it makes my skin crawl.’

  Francesca swallows nervously. ‘I felt it too, but I didn’t say anything as I thought it was just a figment of my imagination.’

  ‘We aren’t imagining it, Francesca. The codex is a portal through which the Antichrist will enter our world – a gateway to Hell. I fear the Devil is trying to reach through the text, drawing the Sons of Cain to it. That would explain why Fabricius could track us. He was following the evil aura of the codex.’

  Francesca looks anxiously at the Devil’s Bible. ‘And if that’s the case, then we’ve got no chance of hiding it from the Sons of Cain.’

  ‘Well, however they are managing to track us, it doesn’t seem as if we’ll be getting out of London that way,’ I mutter, staring at the Warlock of Lower Slaughter and his furies. I pick up the codex in preparation to run back across the bridge. ‘I don’t think the Warlock has seen us yet, judging by the fact that he hasn’t sent his furies after us. And we’re not going to hang around long enough to let him spot us. Are you okay to move?’

  Francesca gives a dogged nod. ‘I’m going to have to be. It’s not as if we have many options.’

  I sneak out from behind the wagon
s. ‘Good, then let’s get going. Keep out of the lantern-light.’

  But I jolt back when I look northward and find that a cloaked figure has somehow snuck past the guards that are still redirecting people away from the bridge. The person has already advanced a quarter of the distance across the bridge, their black metal chest-plate, tri-bar pot helmet and the metal barrel of their drawn cavalry pistol glistening in the light of a nearby lantern.

  ‘The Devil take us!’ I curse. ‘It’s Thomas Whitcliff. The Sons of Cain have us trapped!’

  ‘We need to find a way off the bridge.’ Francesca moves over to the doorway of the nearest building and tries the handle. Finding it locked, she puts her shoulder against it. ‘If we can get inside this building, we’ll be able to climb its staircase up to the roof. From there, we should be able to make our way across the rooftops until we reach the southern end of the bridge.’

  Having been left with a severe aversion of heights from my experiences atop the keep at Schloss Kriegsberg and the cliff-top monastery of Varlaam, I race out onto the lowered drawbridge. Determined to find an alternative means of escape, I move to the side. I place the codex on the ground and peer over the wooden railing to scan the river below. The water is illuminated by the hellish red glow of the distant fire. I hope to find a boat moored along one of the wooden pontoons at the base of the stone piers. When I discover nothing but a waterwheel and an adjoining wooden shed, I start to reload my pistols, planning to get off two shots at the Sons of Cain before they reach us.

  Turning to the south, I notice that the Warlock of Lower Slaughter is walking slowly towards us, past the lanterns on the bridge roadway, his furies keeping pace alongside him. As I look in the opposite direction, however, I’m alarmed to find that Whitcliff has obviously spotted us – perhaps detecting our silhouettes cast by one of the lanterns to our rear – and is sprinting along the bridge.

  ‘How are you going with that door?’ I call out to Francesca.

  ‘Not good,’ she yells back, now trying to kick it open, and glancing over her shoulder at Whitcliff. ‘He’s going to be on us in no time at all!’

  ‘I know.’ I tuck my loaded pistols back into my belt and retrieve the Devil’s Bible.

  As I’m about to move back to help Francesca, I see something that fills me with sudden hope. For two figures – having evidently been allowed onto the bridge by the guards – are racing towards us, their blades drawn and their cloaks billowing behind them. As they pass through the light cast by the tunnel lanterns, I notice that the figure on the left – who is of a slender build and dressed entirely in black – is struggling to keep pace with their companion, whose fluid running style and crimson tabard I recognise instantly.

  ‘We’ll get out of this yet,’ I say to Francesca. ‘Armand and Prayer are on their way!’

  ‘They’ll never reach us in time,’ Francesca says, noting that our companions are over fifty yards behind Whitcliff. Giving up on the door, she starts to load her crossbow.

  I look hurriedly to the left and right, assessing our situation. ‘It’s only Whitcliff that we need to worry about for now. With any luck, you’ll be able to take him out. Just be careful that none of your bolts miss him and hit one of our friends.’

  ‘That’s what I’m concerned about.’ Francesca moves over to join me and raises the crossbow to her shoulder to take aim at the Son of Cain, who is now no more than forty yards away. Steadying her breathing so as to minimise the movement of her weapon, she pulls down on the release lever with her free hand and sends a bolt zipping down the tunnel – only to have Whitcliff twist sharply to the left at the last moment. The bolt flies past his head and continues on its course to thud into the wall of a building behind him, and which Armand races past only a second or two later.

  ‘Be careful!’ I warn Francesca.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that.’ Francesca levels her second shot, her left eye closed as she stares down the crossbow’s sights. Again she shoots – this time the bolt zooms towards the larger target presented by Whitcliff’s torso. But the Son of Cain sidesteps to the right, and the bolt is deflected by his cloak to skitter along the cobbles only a few paces behind him. Then, in the same fluid motion, just as he exits the tunnel and enters the open space above the drawbridge, he raises one of his pistols and levels the barrel at me.

  Recalling Witch Finder Blackwood’s comment that Whitcliff uses cursed pistols guaranteed to hit the heart of their target, I whip up the Devil’s Bible and use it as a shield. Whitcliff fires, and the codex jolts back, taking the full force of the hissing ball. The impact of the shot knocks me back against the bridge railing, which gives way. With a cry caught in my throat, I topple over the side.

  Dear God!

  I let go of the Devil’s Bible and claw desperately in the air, searching for something to grab hold of, afraid that I will crash onto one of the wooden pontoons located at the base of the stone piers. I see the underside of the bridge fly past me, then the front of one of the stone piers. I try to turn around to see if I will land in the water, when, having fallen only half the height of the bridge, I land, back-first, on something solid, making the wind explode from my chest. I lie there for a few seconds, stunned. I rub the back of my head, unsure of what has happened but vaguely aware of a grinding sound coming from somewhere beneath me. Perhaps it’s just a trick played by the blow I took to the back of the head, but it feels as if I am slowly rolling backwards.

  Blinking hard in an attempt to bring some clarity back to my blurred vision, I force myself up onto an elbow, only now realising that I landed atop the massive waterwheel. Looking across and down to my left, I see the Devil’s Bible lying open on the edge of the opposite pontoon where it landed. From above and over to the right, I hear the sound of nail-studded boots rushing closer, no doubt made by Whitcliff as he races across the remaining twenty yards to reach me.

  I turn around and crawl along the waterwheel, wincing in pain as I keep pace with its slow rotation, wary of slipping between the one-foot-wide gaps between its wooden cross beams. Before I’ve started to contemplate what I’m going to do next, the nail-studded boots stop directly above me. I stare up fearfully, expecting to find Whitcliff peering over the broken bridge rail with his remaining pistol trained at me.

  But it’s then that I hear a second pair of rushing feet, which I’m guessing is Francesca, judging from the direction of the footfalls and the lighter sound they make. This is followed by the swish of a blade, the clang of steel on stone, a thud and a whimper of pain. Fearing that Francesca has been hurt, I search desperately for a means of regaining access to the bridge and find a ladder, set in the pier over to my right, and onto which the waterwheel and the adjoining wooden shed are attached. I clamber forward, trying to negotiate my way across the waterwheel with as much speed as possible, determined to reach the ladder and help Francesca, when some sixth sense warns me that I am being watched.

  I freeze.

  I look up at the bridge to find Whitcliff staring down at me, drawing the remaining pistol from his belt.

  Another set of rapidly approaching footfalls sounds from the right – no doubt belonging to Armand – which momentarily distract Whitcliff, forcing him to look over to his left. I burst into action, throwing myself backwards and snatching Prince Rupert’s rifled pistol from my belt. Just as my back hits the wooden slats, I take aim and fire.

  It’s a hasty shot, and I cannot believe my luck when Whitcliff jerks back his right hand and curses as my pistol ball hits him in the forearm. He drops his weapon, which falls and hits the slanting roof of the wooden shed, then ricochets off into the Thames. With a roar of demented rage, Whitcliff leaps over the remnants of the broken bridge rail. Landing on the waterwheel on all fours, he climbs to his feet and, biting back the pain in his wounded forearm, draws his heavy broadsword. Scrambling to my feet, I tuck my pistol into my belt, produce my Solingen rapier, ensur
e I am well balanced, and prepare to meet the Son of Cain’s attack.

  He swings his broadsword savagely at my head, putting his full weight behind it, and I duck beneath the silver arc of his blade. The momentum of the attack almost forces Whitcliff to lose his footing, and I counterattack, concerned that if I do not press forward and keep pace with the revolving wheel, I will eventually be thrown off into the water. Lunging forward, but wary of over-pressing the attack and losing my balance, I almost manage to skewer Whitcliff through the left thigh. He shifts to his right at the last moment, avoiding the thrust, hoists back his own blade and sends it streaking at my head again. Retreating with a cautious step and deftly pulling back my head, I move beyond the reach of his swing and answer with a hasty slash intended to prevent Whitcliff from pressing forward. As he shuffles back, almost losing his balance when the heel of his right boot slips on one of the wooden cross beams, I seize the advantage.

  I take two sudden steps forward and drive my blade at Whitcliff’s torso, certain that this attack will end his life. With surprising speed, the Son of Cain whips around his broadsword, deflecting my attack. Then, reaching out with his gauntleted left hand, he grabs hold of my blade, takes one step back, twists his body to the right and gives a tremendous yank on my rapier. Losing hold of my blade, I stumble forward and fall down one of the gaps between the wooden slats. With a cry of alarm, I reach out, locking my elbows around the closest cross beam, preventing me from falling into the waterwheel.

  Which leaves me at the complete mercy of Whitcliff.

  With Whitcliff now holding my rapier, I support my weight with my left elbow, reach down to my belt and pull out my remaining pistol. Before I have time to take aim, Whitcliff kicks my hand away, and the pistol flies off to the left, hits the neighbouring pier and splashes into the river. Whitcliff draws back my rapier, and I’m about to let go of the cross beam and try my luck in the churning inside of the waterwheel, when a blur of red and black leaps from the bridge. It crashes into the Son of Cain and knocks him off the waterwheel, my rapier flying from his hand to clatter beside the Devil’s Bible on the nearby wooden pontoon.