The Witch Hunter Chronicles 1

by Stuart Daly

  I consider the rapier with newfound respect, wondering how many battles it has seen – and how many lives it has taken. Rather than make me feel empowered, however, it makes me acutely aware of how inexperienced I am. ‘I had no idea this blade had such a history.’

  ‘I’m somewhat of a connoisseur of swords,’ Armand says. ‘And they all have a story to tell – a song to sing as they hum through the air. Some never leave their scabbards, hanging from their owners’ sides as nothing more than status symbols. But a sword of this quality is meant to be drawn. Its sole purpose is to kill – to carve a legend steeped in blood.’ He pauses, and considers me with his youthful blue eyes. ‘I wonder what song this blade will sing in your hands?’ He moves back a few yards, draws one of his sabres. ‘Now, attack me. Strike at me. As fast as you can.’

  I was hoping he wasn’t going to say that. I don’t think the Pappenheimer rapier is going to sing an impressive tune in my hands – it will more than likely choke on the very first note it tries to hit.

  Armand notices me hesitate. ‘Don’t worry – you won’t hurt me. Now, attack.’

  Hurt him? That’s the least of my concerns. I’m more worried about what he’s going to do to me. Armand is not the sort of person I want to cross blades with – not even in practice. He may look like a perfumed fop, but he’s deadlier than a viper.

  I had first heard of Armand over a year ago. My uncle’s stables are visited by travellers from all over Europe, and it just so happened that last year a nobleman from Paris pulled into our stables with a gelding that had an inflamed eye needing urgent attention. Whilst I had been busy sweeping out hay and refilling troughs, I heard him tell my uncle about a dashing young Captain of Louis XIV’s Royal Palace Cavalry, who had only recently been banished from Paris for duelling with members of the King’s Grey Musketeers. All ears, I had stopped working to eavesdrop on the conversation, my fertile mind conjuring images of the daring duellist.

  Coincidentally, a Parisian nobleman moved to Dresden not two weeks after the visit paid by the first Frenchman. Seeking advice on where to buy horses, he had come to my uncle, and they quickly formed a strong friendship. Over the course of the following month, Antoine Chabot came to have dinner with us regularly, and one evening my uncle, his curiosity sparked by the tale told by the other Frenchman, asked Antoine if he had ever heard of the dashing Captain. As it turned out, Antoine had actually witnessed the Captain’s duel with the King’s Grey Musketeers. So it was from Antoine that I developed an understanding of the political and social situation in Paris, and of the life of the reckless Parisian duellist, Armand Breteuil.

  The opera houses and ballrooms of Europe have become stages of death due to men like him. Armed with rapiers and a devil-may-care attitude, they are drawn to these playhouses like moths to lanterns, lured not by the music and acting, but by the opportunity to draw their blades – often over the slightest provocation – and fuel their own notoriety. It has reached a point that the opera houses are scene to more drawn blades than a salle d’armes, a fencing club.

  Adored by women; feared by men. Their life and death determined by the thrust, parry and riposte of slender duelling blades. Such is the life led by these reckless bravados.

  According to Antoine Chabot, Armand was one of the most famous in Paris. Being the victor of over thirty duels, his exploits – and his fall from the King’s favour – were recorded regularly in the Parisian newspapers. He was expelled from the Royal Palace Cavalry for ignoring Louis XIV’s latest edict against duelling. In this particular incident, he had fought six duels in one day with members of the King’s own Grey Musketeers. His punishment: sixty days in the Bastille. In an act that would have won the admiration of any swaggering Gascon, he fought a duel the very day he was released, in broad daylight, outside the Louvre – again, with members of the Grey Musketeers. He was consequently expelled from Paris. It is said that the cries of the women lamenting his departure could be heard as far as Fontainebleau.

  And now I have to duel Armand. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself too much.

  ‘So do you want me to …?’

  The words are caught in my throat as Armand lunges forward with a lightning-fast thrust at my chest. Caught off-guard, I flick my blade up in a desperate gamble at defence.

  Armand shakes his head, gestures at the point of his sabre poking into my belly. ‘That blow would have killed you. Many fights are over before they even start. Never underestimate the value of a fast attack at the very beginning of a duel. That’s when your opponent will be their most tense. A witch will more than likely try to weave its dark magic at the beginning of an engagement. That’s when you should seize the initiative and drive your blade into its chest. Kill it before it has a chance to cast its magic. The instant you draw your blade you become a conductor. Do not make your music routine and dull. Aim for the unpredictable. Orchestrate a symphony of death. Now pay attention. Don’t talk. Just fight.’

  I take a deep breath, muster my nerve, reassume a fighting stance, then lunge forward with a flurry of strikes and thrusts. Armand gives ground easily, focusing exclusively on defence, evaluating the quality of my footwork and thrusts. Then, having assessed my technique, he dexterously sidesteps one of my attacks, weaves forward in a blur of movement, and slaps the flat of his blade against my side.

  I’m dead. Again!

  Armand sheathes his blade, indicating that the lesson is over. ‘You’ve got some speed, I’ll give you that. But there’s a lot of work needed in your technique. Best if you stick to those,’ he points at the pistols tucked into my belt, ‘when we’re in the castle.’

  I sheathe my blade. ‘I guess I have a lot to learn.’

  ‘We all do when it comes to swordplay. It’s not something that’s mastered overnight. Some of the world’s greatest duellists are men in their sixties. They have devoted their entire lives to the study of fencing. And they, too, are learning new methods of attack and defence every time they draw their blades.’ Armand pauses and regards me suspiciously. ‘But on a different topic, I’m curious as to why Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel insisted that you should be included in this team. This mission will be no walk in the park. Even I visited the barrack’s chapel this morning and sought absolution. You don’t have any hidden skills you’re keeping secret from the rest of us?’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  Armand considers me for a moment. ‘Strange, then, that you should have been brought on this mission. Why did you join the Hexenjäger? You’re either very brave or very foolish to join this order. Most of the men who join are older than you and have much more experience in combat.’

  ‘Let’s just say that I have answered a call.’

  ‘From God?’

  ‘No. From within.’

  Armand purses his lips in thought and nods. ‘Then it’s not my place to ask, and I won’t press you any more on the matter. But I will say that we all have private goals and objectives. And it’s often the completion of those goals that are the most rewarding, making us better people.’

  I’m respectful of Armand’s considerate approach. Though I’m also curious as to what motivated him to join the order, and I cannot help but ask.

  ‘I’ve spent most of my military life fighting for France,’ he says. ‘But the concerns of the Bourbon Dynasty now seem insignificant when compared to the need to safeguard our world from the greater evil that threatens to engulf it. Be warned, Jakob, these are dark times. The Devil’s servants are everywhere. All of a sudden, territorial boundaries and dynastic concerns seem trivial. And there is no greater cause than joining the Hexenjäger and drawing steel in the name of Christ.’

  Armand pauses and clicks his tongue in thought. ‘But I must also say that I’ve led an immoral life and made many powerful enemies in France – so many, in fact, that it’s in my best interest not to step foot in that country for a few years. My past actions have brought great shame upon my family. And so I consider my time spent in the German states – that is,
time spent with this military order – as a self-imposed exile and penance. Hopefully it will bring about my soul’s salvation.’

  Despite Armand’s decadent past, it seems we have similar motives for joining the Hexenjäger. We have both been drawn to the order by the desire to defend the Holy Roman Empire against the rising forces of evil. Irrespective of Armand’s sin-stained past, we share a common bond, and I find that comforting.

  Feeling at ease with him, and hoping to learn more about my companions, I look over my shoulder, checking that von Frankenthal cannot overhear our conversation, and whisper, ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question about him?’

  ‘Revelation 6.8? Not at all.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Armand smiles. ‘That’s the nickname I’ve given von Frankenthal. I think it’s most befitting, naming him after the chapter and verse of the Book of Revelation of John, which tells of the arrival of the fourth rider of the Apocalypse.’

  ‘And you call him that to his face?’

  Armand cannot help but smirk. ‘Let’s just say that I have to choose my moments very carefully. And I would most certainly caution you against using that name, even in jest. The last person to do so was one of our order, Jansen Kloost. You may have seen him walking around the barracks. He’s a bit hard to miss, thanks to the broken nose von Frankenthal gave him.’

  ‘Believe me, I won’t be calling him that,’ I say, recalling that I have indeed seen one of the Hexenjäger with a nose as bent as a dog’s rear leg. ‘But I don’t understand why von Frankenthal has been given the charge of looking after me. I don’t mean to sound critical, but is he the best man to watch over initiates? And he called me Gerhard. Who’s that?’

  ‘Never tell von Frankenthal that I told you this, but beneath his fierce exterior beats the heart of a lamb,’ Armand says, his voice lowered. ‘I know – he’s giving you a hard time at the moment. And he’ll keep that up for the next few weeks. But if you can prove your worth to him, you’ll earn the respect of one of the strongest fighters in our order. And, believe me, von Frankenthal is the sort of man you want standing by your side in a fight. The trick to winning him over is to demonstrate your courage.

  ‘It’s rare for our order to take in young, raw recruits. But there are always exceptions to the norm, and we have been known to take in the sons of lords. We are, first and foremost, a military organisation. But it’s prudent for any military unit to stay abreast of political affairs and not to make enemies of those in power. Although our patron, the Holy Roman Emperor, Leopold I, is the first cousin of Louis XIV, the King of France, they are great rivals. They head two of the greatest dynasties of this century: the Habsburg and Bourbon Dynasties. Both rulers wish to see their empires expand throughout Europe.’

  ‘But the Holy Roman Empire was weakened by the ravages of the Thirty Years’ War,’ I say, believing France to be the stronger of the two dynasties, and calling upon the knowledge I had gathered from the books in my uncle’s study. ‘The Treaty of Westphalia of 1648 effectively ended the Thirty Years’ War; the princes of the German states no longer owe their allegiance to Leopold.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Armand nods in a manner that suggests he is impressed by my knowledge of European history. ‘Leopold is wary of his French rival cajoling the princes to join the Bourbon camp, hence eating away at the heart of the Habsburg Holy Roman Empire. And so, in addition to the sons of lords and German princes, we have also been receptive to special requests from people who have won the respect of the Holy Roman Emperor. I believe your uncle is one of the finest farriers in the country. I’ve heard he even brought Leopold’s prize mare back to health. It goes without saying that your admission as an initiate is primarily the Holy Roman Emperor’s way of thanking your uncle for services rendered.’

  I raise my eyebrows, amazed by how much Armand knows of my past. I wonder if all of the other Hexenjäger are privy to this information, or if it’s just that Armand takes a personal interest in learning the background of those who join the order. But I now feel all the more guilt for my deception and forgery.

  ‘And Gerhard was a raw recruit?’ I ask, hoping to steer the conversation back to its original topic.

  ‘He was the last initiate to enter the Hexenjäger,’ Armand says, nodding. ‘A lad of about seventeen years of age, placed under von Frankenthal’s care. In fact, Gerhard was the first initiate to have been placed under von Frankenthal’s care, and they quickly formed a strong friendship. Gerhard followed him everywhere like a loyal puppy. But von Frankenthal over-estimated young Gerhard’s fighting ability. Last month von Frankenthal and Gerhard were part of a team sent to investigate rumours of a coven of witches hiding in a forest somewhere in the hills east of Mannheim. Well, to cut a long story short, the team was ambushed. Von Frankenthal tore into their attackers … and Gerhard followed straight after him. The lad was torn to shreds in a matter of seconds.’

  Armand pauses and looks over at von Frankenthal, a genuine sadness in his eyes. ‘Understandably, von Frankenthal hasn’t coped well with Gerhard’s death. It’s evident that he blames himself for what happened, and he has a lot of pent-up anger. Gerhard was, after all, placed under his care, and they were close friends. Von Frankenthal has tried to erase the entire incident from his mind, and on the rare occasion that he does talk of Gerhard, it’s with scorn. Mental scars take a long time to heal, if indeed they ever do.

  ‘Lieutenant Blodklutt has placed you under von Frankenthal’s care primarily to get him back in the saddle, so to speak. And now, I guess, von Frankenthal’s afraid of becoming too attached to any new initiate. He’s already lost one, and he doesn’t want to go through that pain again. But there’s hope for you yet. He’ll never admit it, but I’m sure that von Frankenthal’s true motive for hitting Bethlen was to get revenge for what he did to you.’

  ‘Well, at least I now understand why he treats me the way he does,’ I say, appreciative of the information provided by Armand.

  ‘Be patient. He will eventually learn to accept you for who you are.’

  ‘But time is something I fear I may not have,’ I say, and lower my eyes. ‘Nobody here seems to think that I’m going to survive this mission. And look what happened to Gerhard.’

  Armand plants a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to look into his eyes. ‘I’m not sure what role Lieutenant Blodklutt will have me play in the castle. Normally, I’m in the thick of battle. But I will do my best to keep an eye out for you. You have my word on that. And my word is something I do not give lightly.’

  I feel my heart fill with hope. For the first time this week, I actually have something to feel good about. Within the hour I may be fighting witches inside Schloss Kriegsberg, but I now have a valuable ally within the Hexenjäger – a skilled swordsman with plenty of combat experience.

  Armand comes from a world rife with gossip and backstabbing. The more I talk to him, however, the more I am beginning to respect him. Despite his immoral past, he seems to be sincere. It looks as though I might be making my first friend within the ranks of the Hexenjäger.

  I am about to thank Armand, when Lieutenant Blodklutt and Robert Monro return with Captain Faust – a veteran Hexenjäger with features as hard as weathered stone. He’s of medium height but as wide as a Spanish galleon, and lines as deep as dry river beds are etched in his forehead.

  After a quick introduction – which, I must confess, I find anti-climactic, as he pays me scant interest – he beckons us close.

  ‘I have important news,’ he announces, getting straight to business. ‘As you already know, I have traced the location of one of Joshua’s trumpets to Schloss Kriegsberg. From the inhabitants of a nearby village I have learned of a local legend. It tells of a mad countess, Countess Gretchen Kraus – a powerful witch by many accounts, who acquired the trumpet we seek well over a hundred years ago. She tried using the trumpet for her own evil designs, but it burned her hands like hot coals. Having vowed that the weapon would never be used against the forces
of darkness, she tried to destroy it. A blacksmith’s hammer – even fire and acid – proved ineffective. So she hid the trumpet within a trap-riddled dungeon beneath the central keep of Schloss Kriegsberg. All manner of horrors guard the artefact.’ Captain Faust pauses for dramatic effect. ‘Some even say that one of Hell’s lieutenants waits in the darkness, in silent vigil for eternity.’

  Dramatic effect achieved! Did someone just pour ice down my spine? It’s too late to walk away now, though. I’m in this up to my ears.

  ‘Now getting through the dungeon and securing the trumpet is not going to be easy, but it gets worse,’ Captain Faust continues, his bill of fare not complete. ‘I have learned that a coven of witches resides in the castle. It is also said that the Countess still lives. She maintains her youth by bathing in the blood of young maidens. She’s known by the locals as the Blood Countess.’

  I feel my stomach tighten in fright. Hell’s lieutenant, a coven of witches and a countess who has found the secret to eternal youth! Am I the only one to have noticed that there are only eight of us? Eight! We are not the Lord’s angels, but mortal flesh and blood. I fear we’ll be cut to shreds the second we enter the castle.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Bethlen asks.

  I know what I feel like doing – riding back to Burg Grimmheim and informing Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel that the situation is hopeless. Even better, we could tell him that we couldn’t find the trumpet. It was all part of an elaborate hoax. Joke on us. Schloss Kriegsberg was all but dust and cobwebs.

  ‘I didn’t join this order to sit and watch dust gather on some castle,’ Christian von Frankenthal says, his voice a rumbling avalanche. ‘We are the Hexenjäger. We know the location of the trumpet. What’s more, just hearing that one of Hell’s lieutenants waits in the dungeon is reason enough for us to go in – right now.’