The Witch Hunter Chronicles 1

by Stuart Daly

  Speak for yourself, von Frankenthal! It’s reason enough to make me sprint twenty leagues in the opposite direction, thank you very much. I’ll gladly accompany the team up to the castle, but that’s far enough for me. There’s no glory to be had in rushing to a certain death. Caution before bravado, I always say.

  ‘As much as I want to find the Scourge of Jericho, it’s too late for us to venture into the castle today,’ Captain Faust explains, much to my relief. ‘It’s already past midday – we only have another five hours of daylight remaining. Satan’s followers are at their most powerful in the dead hours of night. The last thing we want is to get caught in the castle come nightfall and give any would-be attackers an unnecessary advantage. I very much doubt even we would survive such an encounter. It will be prudent for us to wait until tomorrow before venturing into the castle. If we set off at first light, we can have the entire day to search for the relic.’

  ‘And what do we do until then?’ Armand asks. ‘I’m not keen to spend the night in this forest, left to the mercy of packs of wolves and whatever other horrors stalk these lands.’

  ‘Is it the wolves that scare you?’ Bethlen snickers. ‘Or the thought of not sleeping in a bed, Frenchman?’

  ‘May I suggest you leave attempts at humour to those who have the mental capacity to make jokes,’ Armand says curtly. ‘Otherwise, you may strain your brain.’

  Glad to see Bethlen put in his place again, I cannot help but smile, but Captain Faust is not impressed, giving both Bethlen and Armand a glare that immediately silences any further bickering.

  ‘We will camp here for the evening,’ Captain Faust says finally, inspecting the clearing. ‘It seems a good enough spot. We can leave at first dawn and be up at the castle within a matter of minutes.’

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for – an invitation? You heard the Captain – let’s set camp,’ Lieutenant Blodklutt orders, clapping his hands to get us moving.

  Within half an hour, bed rolls are laid, the horses are unsaddled and fed, and a fire is lit. We then spend the remainder of the afternoon checking our weapons and girding ourselves for the impossible task that lies ahead.

  Having checked my weapons over a dozen times, I wander off to the edge of the clearing to where there is a break in the trees, and stare up at the battlements of the castle, perched atop a hill that rises above the surrounding foothills of the Harz Mountains. For some strange reason, however, I find my eyes drawn past the castle, to the mist-shrouded peak of a distant towering mountain. Just looking at it sends a shiver down my spine, as if the mountain itself is emanating an aura of evil.

  Looking back at Schloss Kriegsberg, I am reminded that tomorrow will be my baptism of fire. My knowledge of fighting is based on heroic tales read in books. Even my knowledge of swordplay has come from the instructional sketches in the Scienza D’Arme. But tomorrow I will face the stark reality of combat. I have dreamed of this moment my entire life – the moment I will draw my blade and leap into battle, carving a reputation as a skilled warrior. But now, on the very eve of achieving my life-long dream, I find myself uttering a silent prayer – a prayer that I will not panic at the first sight of spilt blood.

  A cough draws me from my thoughts, and I’m surprised to find Klaus sitting on a log several yards over to my left, puffing away on his pipe. Encouraged by the favourable outcome of my earlier discussion with Armand, I decide to initiate a conversation with him.

  ‘What’s the name of that mountain?’ I ask, gesturing at the distant peak.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just makes me uneasy.’

  Klaus tilts back his wide-brimmed hat to get a closer look. ‘It’s called Brocken Mountain. The highest in this region. But it’s more famous as a haunt for witches.’

  I look again at the mountain, its snow-covered peak shrouded in mist, hiding unknown horrors. I feel the skin on the back of my neck start to crawl.

  ‘Last year the Church sent a company of witch hunters up that mountain to destroy a coven of witches,’ Klaus continues. ‘Not members of our order, but they were nasty fellows, nonetheless, having conducted a reign of terror down in Bavaria, and led by Heinrich von Dornheim, the son of the Witch Bishop of Bamberg. Not the sort of people you’d want to run into. Well, actually, you never will, because they were never seen again. It’s as if the mountains swallowed them up.’

  My ears prick up like soldiers snapping to attention. ‘How many witch hunters?’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘Thirty!’ I exclaim, wondering how so many could simply disappear.

  ‘These mountains are ancient,’ Klaus explains, reading the alarmed look on my face. ‘They hold many dark secrets. You’d best keep your wits about you. And consider yourself lucky that it isn’t the night before May Day.’

  ‘Why? What’s to be feared about the final night of April?’ I ask, wondering why he would warn me about a festival celebrating the end of winter.

  Klaus arches an eyebrow. ‘You really don’t know much, do you? On May Day’s eve – or Walpurgis Night – these mountains come alive with witches as they celebrate a Sabbath. Infants are stolen from nearby villages and sacrificed in Satan’s name, and witches climb to the Hexentanzplatz – the Witches’ Dance Floor – a plateau high in the mountains, from where they take to the night sky on their broomsticks.’ He snorts derisively. ‘The Church has known about this for centuries. But what has it done? Nothing. It’s more concerned with burning people with conspicuous birthmarks.’

  Hearing him say this, I tilt my head in curiosity, surprised that one of the Hexenjäger would make such an open criticism of the Church. I place a hand on the hilt of my rapier for reassurance, and look again at Brocken Mountain. Somewhere up there lie the bodies of thirty dead witch hunters. That hardly inspires confidence in the success of our mission.

  ‘What’s it like to fight a witch? I mean, a proper witch?’ I ask, turning my attention back to Klaus. ‘You’re a veteran witch hunter. You must have killed dozens.’

  ‘You don’t join the Hexenjäger to shear sheep,’ Klaus says, suppressing a grin. ‘Let’s just say I’ve well and truly earned my position within this order. Fighting witches is always a nasty affair. They never go down without a fight. And a word of advice – never give one the opportunity to gain the offensive. You must always press the attack. Don’t give it the chance to weave its dark magic. Hesitate, and you’ll most certainly end up dead.’

  I nod appreciatively. Right now, any advice is invaluable if I have any hope of surviving the mission ahead.

  ‘Show them no mercy,’ Klaus continues. ‘To do otherwise will cost you your own life. Under no circumstances should you allow one to surrender. And if the opportunity should ever arise during combat, take out the hag’s tongue. Do that, and it can’t weave its magic.’

  I shoot Klaus a horrified look. Visions of me sitting on a wrinkled old crone, severing her tongue with my dagger, flash through my mind.

  ‘Never do that,’ Klaus warns, reading the expression on my face. ‘Never take pity on them. To do so will cost you your own life. Remember that witches have abandoned God. And do not confuse the witches we fight with the innocent old women burned at the stake by the Roman Catholic Church. For we fight real witches who have made an unholy pact with Satan and gained diabolical powers. They can only be killed with holy weapons, and cast spells that will sap the blood from your veins.’ His eyes suddenly narrow into malicious slits, revealing that there is a deeper, darker side beneath his calm exterior. ‘I’ve walked the earth for thirty-two years now, and for twelve of those I have been God’s avenging angel. All who stray from His true path will face my judgement. They will answer for their blasphemous actions on the end of my blade. Vengeance shall be mine.’ He then catches himself and smiles dismissively. ‘But that’s why we’ve all joined the Hexenjäger, isn’t it?’

  Although taken aback by the sudden aggression in his words, and believing that there may have perhaps been a deeper meaning behin
d his threat, I am nonetheless thankful for his advice. I’m about to pick his mind for more information on fighting Satan’s legions, but Armand announces that he has prepared an early dinner and calls us over to sit by the fire.

  The sun has set by the time we finish our meal of bread and salted pork. As Robert takes first watch, the rest of us huddle around the fire. At length, the Hexenjäger start to discuss past missions, and tell dark tales of witches and warlocks, many of which concern horrific events that have taken place in these very mountains. At first, I listen intently, hoping to learn all that I can. But it isn’t long before I draw my cloak tight around my neck, and glance warily over my shoulder into the darkness beyond the perimeter of light cast by our camp fire, fearful of what horrors might be lurking in the night, and conscious of the peril I have placed myself in.

  The Hexenjäger tell dozens of tales, some of which would chill the blood of veteran Papal Inquisitors, let alone an inexperienced initiate. But there’s one tale told by Captain Faust that leaves me terrified. According to a local legend, a witch, masquerading as a midwife, abducted and ate three infants in Goslar, a town located not far from our present location. She eventually came to the attention of the authorities, who followed her to her cottage deep in the forest. A fight ensued, but the witch escaped before she could be caught. However, it was what the authorities discovered inside the cottage that truly terrified them. Stored on shelves, lining the walls of every room, were hundreds of bottles containing the still-beating hearts of infants the witch had slain and eaten. Satanic verses, scrawled in blood on the bottles, kept the hearts beating – and it was this dark magic, the authorities reckoned, that had kept the witch alive for several hundred years. The authorities smashed the bottles and burned the cottage to the ground. The witch was never seen again, but it is said she still prowls these forests and mountains at night time, looking for a fresh heart to start her collection anew. It is also said that the haunting sound of wailing infants can be heard at the site where the witch’s cottage once stood.

  It is almost midnight before the Hexenjäger finish talking and curl up beside the fire. With Lieutenant Blodklutt replacing Robert on watch, I lay down on my bed roll, but I very much doubt I will get any sleep. The fact that we are camping in the foothills of the witch-infested Harz Mountains – and the haunting tales I have heard – have scared me to no end. If I wasn’t in the presence of a unit of highly trained witch slayers, I’d be getting on my horse and riding out of here this very instant.

  I have barely laid down, however, before Bethlen, lying only a yard or two off to my right, hisses to get my attention. ‘I hope you get a good night’s sleep, whelp,’ he whispers. ‘For it’s going to be the last you’ll ever get. You’ll be dead by this time tomorrow.’

  Trying to ignore his comment, I pull one of the pistols from my belt and clutch it tight against my chest. Facing the fire, my back turned towards the night, I lay awake for some time, too afraid to close my eyes, listening to the distant howls of wolves, my mind conjuring images of withered old crones emerging from Schloss Kriegsberg and sneaking down to our campsite, where they leer at us from behind the curtain of the night.

  I cannot help but notice that Captain Faust remains sitting by the fire the entire night, wrapped in the folds of his crimson cloak, his sheathed rapier propped by his side. Taking some comfort from the fact that he and Lieutenant Blodklutt are maintaining a careful vigil over the camp, I eventually drift off into a troubled sleep.

  I am woken an hour before dawn by Captain Faust. I wake surprisingly refreshed, and relieved that we were not attacked during the night. My companions have already risen, strapped on their baldrics, and are eating a quick breakfast. I join them, and it isn’t long before Captain Faust orders us to assemble at the trail that leads up to the castle.

  ‘It will be dawn soon,’ he says. ‘We will head up to Schloss Kriegsberg now. We won’t be going in straight away, though. First, we need to assess the situation and work out the best way to sneak into the castle without being spotted. We also need to wait for the sun to rise. Once it’s daylight, the witches will be their weakest. As we don’t know exactly what we are going to encounter in there, you’ll need to be on your guard. A simple mistake could be fatal, costing us all our lives.’

  No sooner has he said this than von Frankenthal shoots me a stern look, as if I am destined to fail on this mission, and that it will be my inexperience that will place everybody in danger. ‘Then let’s get this over and done with,’ he growls, looking back at Captain Faust. ‘We’ve waited long enough. It’s time for my blade to quench its thirst for witches’ blood.’

  If von Frankenthal wanted to impress Captain Faust, he certainly achieved his aim. The Captain’s eyes flash with an inner fire. His furnace of war has been stoked. He draws his blade, and the others do likewise in a symbolic union – a brotherhood of war. I draw mine with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been ordered to unblock a city sewer with an already broken mop.

  Captain Faust kisses his blade. ‘Audaces fortuna iuvat.’

  Fortune favours the brave. Well, not always. And it certainly doesn’t pay for your funeral service. Nor reconcile grieving family.

  Armand looks across at me and winks encouragingly, as if everything is going to be all right. I swallow back the rising knot of fear in my throat and try to take strength from Armand’s reassuring presence.

  But then Bethlen pushes up beside me and sticks his face inches from mine. ‘This is going to be your baptism by fire, whelp. You’re a lamb about to be sent to the slaughter.’

  Schloss Kriegsberg is enormous, defended by a forty-foot-high crenellated wall, and riddled with battlements, towers and parapets. The entrance is guarded by an imposing barbican, its heavy portcullis raised. As the top of the hill on which the castle stands is comprised of solid rock, the entire fortress is surrounded by a fifty-yard perimeter of cleared ground, making a surprise assault impossible.

  Before the advent of gunpowder, Schloss Kriegsberg would have been impregnable. But stone walls are little defence against the destructive power of cannons. Now the castle is nothing more than a relic of the age of chivalry and jousting knights. Still, I must confess, it certainly impresses.

  We are concealed within a clump of trees on the edge of the cleared perimeter, facing the barbican and outer gatehouse. Crouched on my knees, peering through the branches, I have a perfect view of the castle, and I can’t help but shiver in nervous anticipation. Somewhere beneath the fastness lies the Trumpet of Jericho, guarded by the Blood Countess and her minions.

  ‘Our first objective is to secure the gatehouse,’ Captain Faust whispers, drawing everyone’s attention. ‘I want a complete sweep of the area. Don’t leave any nook or cranny unchecked. I don’t want anything to surprise us from behind. We’ll go in two groups. I’ll lead the first; Blodklutt brings up the second. Christian, Klaus, Armand and Robert are with me. Bethlen and Jakob are with Blodklutt. The second group doesn’t move until it sees my signal. We don’t know what we’re going to encounter in there. I certainly don’t want us falling into any trap. If we do, it’s up to the second team to launch their own surprise and help us out. The entire barbican is to be cleared before we proceed into the castle proper. From what I can see from here, it looks as if there will be a second gatehouse at the rear of the barbican. We’ll meet at that second gate.’

  Fate must have me blacklisted. This has to be some sort of sick joke. Why have I been stuck with Bethlen? I look at his direction, and catching my eye he sneers back at me. I was sure I was going to be assigned to the same group as von Frankenthal. It’s going to be impossible for him to look after me if I’m back with Bethlen and Lieutenant Blodklutt. Again, I find myself wondering why I was ever placed under his care. And Armand – the one person I feel I can truly trust and depend upon – is also in the first group.

  Still, if anyone is going to encounter witches, it’s going to be Captain Faust’s group, being the first to enter the castle. Theref
ore it only makes perfect sense that I – an absolute novice – should be assigned to the rear group.

  And it’s not as if the group to which I’ve been assigned won’t be able to look after itself. Lieutenant Blodklutt’s reputedly the best swordsman within the entire order. But, I remind myself ominously, there’s only so much that one man can do, irrespective of how talented a fighter they are, against a coven of witches and one of Hell’s lieutenants.

  A final check of our weapons, a few encouraging smiles, and then we crouch like stalking panthers in the undergrowth, awaiting Captain Faust’s command to spring into action. This is all happening so fast it feels surreal. My head is in a spin. I feel a world apart from my uncle’s stables, and I find myself wishing desperately to be back there right now. But it wasn’t as if anyone twisted my arm behind my back and forced me to join the Hexenjäger. It was all my own doing. I just never thought I was going to be this nervous.

  From the corner of my eye I catch von Frankenthal staring at me. He comes over and crouches by my side.

  ‘Keep your head down in there, you hear me,’ he says. ‘Leave the fighting to the more experienced men. The last thing I want is to have to drag your bloodied corpse out of there. So stay by Lieutenant Blodklutt and watch your back.’

  He moves off before I get a chance to respond, leaving me staring after him. He goes back to his original position, glaring at the castle as he girds himself for combat. I think that was von Frankenthal’s way of telling me that he actually does care about me and is concerned for my safety. He obviously still has a long way to go before he becomes reconciled to Gerhard’s death. As Armand said, mental scars take a long time to heal. But I’m sure that, with time, von Frankenthal will start to accept me for who I am, and not as the ghost of his lost friend. I just hope that we survive this mission and get the opportunity to develop that friendship.