The Witch Hunter Chronicles 1

by Stuart Daly

  ‘I’d say the lad is right,’ Klaus says. ‘And if they are witch hunters, it will be to our advantage. They won’t want the trumpet, but only to eliminate the coven. I’m sure they’ll assist us. But if they are relic hunters, then we have a problem.’

  ‘We don’t just have a problem. It’s far worse than that.’ Armand’s been prying with a dagger into one of the witches. I’ve been wondering what he’s been up to, but trying not to focus too much on the gruesome scene. Now, finally, he extracts something from the gunshot wound he’s been investigating. ‘You’re not going to like this.’

  He wipes the blood from the object and holds it up.

  It’s a silver pistol ball, with a crucifix carved on it.

  Armand might well have announced that the Pope is a blasphemous Lutheran, such is the stunned reaction of the Hexenjäger. I can’t help but notice, however, that Lieutenant Blodklutt and Captain Faust exchange a knowing glance, as if they’re not too surprised by this discovery.

  The significance of the silver pistol ball, however, means nothing to me.

  Armand notices my blank look. ‘Only one group uses such balls,’ he explains, then pauses, stares me hard in the eyes. I can tell this is going to be one hell of a punch. ‘The Brotherhood of the Cross!’

  I stare back, stunned, suddenly feeling weak in the knees.

  God help us!

  The Brotherhood of the Cross. I doubt there’s one person in all of the Holy Roman Empire who has not heard of them. Three fanatical Protestants. Also known as the Holy Trinity, but wrapped in black cloaks like the Devil’s ravens.

  The Father: Leopold von Wolfenbüttel. His wife and six daughters were accused of heresy and burned alive at the stake. Since that fateful day he’s been fuelled by a personal vendetta against the Catholic Church. He’s conducted a reign of terror in Lorraine, crucified ten parish priests in Sondershausen, and tortured to death over a hundred Catholics in the Kyfhäuser Mountains.

  The Son: Kurt von Wolfenbüttel. The sole son of Leopold. A puritanical maniac. Only the plague is said to have killed more people. He’s as powerful as a galloping draught horse. It’s said that he cannot be killed, having survived over two dozen musket and sword wounds. He keeps a tally of his kills by scarring his forearm with a heated blade. Strangely, he paints his face white before going into combat.

  The Holy Spirit: a shadowy figure. Identity unknown. Where he appears, death follows.

  In short, not the sort of people you want to meet. Not unless you want to be strapped on a bolting horse and delivered to the nearest graveyard.

  There’s an uncomfortable silence. All I can hear is Bethlen squeezing air through his nostrils and Armand clicking his tongue. It’s a rather annoying habit, that. I’ve noticed that Armand tends to do it when in deep thought. I don’t know if he’s even aware he’s doing it. But now isn’t the right moment to draw attention to his idiosyncrasies. I don’t want to distract him from his thoughts, for we need a solution to our present predicament. Indeed, our situation has just become so dire that we might as well have been sent into Hell without even a crucifix.

  ‘It’s safe to assume they are after the trumpet.’ Captain Faust is as solemn as a Papal Inquisitor with a migraine. ‘And you can imagine the havoc they’ll wreak if they get their hands on it. They’d go straight for the heart of the Roman Catholic Church – the Vatican. They would plunge Europe into a war the likes of which we’ve never seen before. It would be a full-scale war between Catholics and Protestants – Armageddon for Christendom.’

  ‘Then we have to stop them at all costs,’ Bethlen says.

  ‘But that’s easier said than done,’ Lieutenant Blodklutt remarks dryly.

  I swallow nervously. It hardly inspires confidence when someone of his fighting ability has doubts.

  ‘So do we let the Brotherhood do the hard work for us?’ Armand asks. ‘Let them take out the witches, brave the dungeon and collect the trumpet? All we’d have to do is intercept them when they emerge with the prize.’

  ‘As nice as that sounds, it’s too risky,’ Captain Faust comments. ‘We can’t run the risk of letting them get anywhere near the trumpet. On the contrary, we must go in after them. It’s easiest to kill a wolf when it’s already distracted. The Brotherhood will not be expecting us. We have the element of surprise and the advantage of numbers. They may have already suffered a loss at the hands of the witches. We’ll sneak up from behind, wait for them to engage the coven. Then we’ll catch them by surprise. This may be our only chance to put an end to their unholy war.’

  He makes it sound so simple – as easy as eating a piece of pie. But I fear this pie has been laced with arsenic, and we’ve just been delivered a double serve.

  When the other Hexenjäger return from checking the inner gatehouse, we gather in the shadows under the second portcullis, noting the layout of the castle, strategising our plan of attack.

  A central courtyard opens before us, almost fifty yards wide and just as long. Along its southern, western and eastern flanks, adjoining the battlement walls, are a series of storehouses, guard rooms and stables. All appear empty, silent. To the north stands the stronghold of the castle: a central keep, six storeys high, towering over the other buildings, entered via a nail-studded door that faces onto the courtyard. Somewhere beneath it lies the dungeon and Countess Gretchen Kraus’s lair – the lair of the Blood Countess.

  Captain Faust directs Robert to take position in the highest point of the castle – a tower, even taller than the central keep, rising from the eastern battlement. It’s obviously an observation post, used to detect the approach of an enemy over a thousand yards away. But Robert will use it to monitor the interior of the castle. Overlooking the central courtyard, the castle’s battlements and the windows on the eastern and southern sides of the keep, the tower is a perfect sniping post.

  It was only a week ago, when I was first assigned to cleaning the Hexenjäger’s arsenal of guns and blades, that I first saw a rifle. Three were stacked on a rack along the rear wall of the armoury, separate from the dozens of other pistols, carbines and muskets that lined the walls of the room, and I was tempted to spend some time analysing them. Like flintlock muskets, they are muzzle loaders, but they are considerably longer and have rifled barrels, giving the ball far greater accuracy. I’ve heard that they are accurate up to two hundred yards. That’s far better than my carbine, which I’ve been told has an effective range of no more than forty yards.

  And there’s no questioning Robert’s skill with the rifle. He shot the witch in the courtyard directly in the heart. It’s certainly reassuring knowing that he’ll be monitoring our progress and watching our backs. It will be like having our own guardian angel.

  With Robert providing cover, we are to move straight into the central keep. We’re to ignore the buildings along the perimeter of the courtyard. This time we’re to go straight in – to follow the sounds of combat until we find the Brotherhood. Until then, no firearms are to be discharged within the keep. We are to use only our blades. Captain Faust doesn’t want to risk giving away our element of surprise. Only Robert has permission to fire, but as a last resort.

  After a few words with Captain Faust, the Scot scurries off into the inner gatehouse, making his way to the tower. Once he’s in position, we’ll move into the keep. Blodklutt and Armand will lead. Armand has already drawn both of his cavalry sabres, and is bragging about how he will be the one to bring down Kurt von Wolfenbüttel. Lieutenant Blodklutt, on the other hand, doesn’t say a word, his brooding eyes locked on the keep, searching for movement through its windows. He is determined and focused, like an Inquisitor scanning the flesh of some terrified peasant for moles or other signs of devilry.

  I can’t see a thing. There’s no movement, no sounds – nothing. You’d never guess we’d heard sounds of combat come from there only moments before. It’s as though there hasn’t been a living creature enter the keep for over a hundred years.

  But somewhere within there lurk
three of the most dangerous men alive. And any second now we’ll be going in after them.

  A white handkerchief appears from one of the windows of the tower, indicating Robert Monro is in position. Not a second later, Lieutenant Blodklutt and Armand race forward, making a direct line for the keep’s nail-studded door. They are halfway across the courtyard when we break our cover and follow after them.

  Keeping my head low, I sprint across the open expanse, conscious of the noise made by my jostling weapons and bandolier. I’m expecting a cry of alarm to be sounded at any second, warning the witches within the keep of our presence. To my relief, none is given, and I reach the keep only a few seconds behind Armand and Lieutenant Blodklutt, who have already slipped through the door and entered the building. I try to listen over the sounds made by my other companions as they race across the courtyard. But there are no cries of alarm from within the keep; no squeal of steel on steel, no blood-choked cries. The coast seems clear.

  I make the sign of the cross, say a quick prayer, and swallow back the boulder in my throat. Then, when the others reach the door, we enter the keep.

  We move into the darkness beyond the door, the swish of our boots across the flagstone floor reverberating off the walls. The air is so stale it almost makes me gag. It smells of ancient stone and dust, like a tomb that has just been opened for the first time in centuries.

  My eyes gradually adjust to the darkness, revealing a corridor stretching before me, a series of doors spanning off it. At the end of the corridor lies a stairwell, winding up into darkness. Lieutenant Blodklutt and Armand have already advanced halfway down the corridor. They are moving with the stealth of stalking cats, checking each doorway, ensuring each room is empty before moving forward.

  A massive figure stirs by my side: Christian von Frankenthal. Even when he’s crouching he still towers over me. He’s not really built for stealth, and was probably sired by a pair of battering rams. He’s moving silently, nonetheless.

  We fan out across the corridor and move steadily towards the stairwell. There’s no sign of the witches, nor of the Brotherhood of the Cross. There’s nothing in any of the rooms but dust and cobwebs. Then, in the final room, we find them – two witches, as old as Eve, no more than husks in rags. They are sprawled across the floor, lying in pools of blood, both killed by single pistol shots to the head.

  ‘Precise,’ Klaus whispers, entering the room and kneeling over their bodies. ‘Shot square in the forehead. No other wounds on them. No signs of struggle. They were taken out quickly.’

  Whilst Captain Faust and von Frankenthal enter the room to inspect the bodies, I stay by the doorway and avert my eyes, sickened by the scene. As Klaus moves back from the witches – and my other companions are either standing outside in the corridor, or are focusing on the dead bodies – a malicious smile crosses his lips. It lasts only a fleeting second, but it lasts long enough for me to realise that there is a sinister side to his nature. If I am not mistaken, he has taken a perverse pleasure in seeing the slain witches. I also cannot help but feel, however, that there was a hint of familiarity in his smile, as if he has witnessed this type of scene many times before, and was admiring the marksmanship of the person who had shot the witches.

  ‘Looks like the work of Kurt,’ Captain Faust observes, drawing my attention. ‘He’s an expert shot. Never misses. Single pistol shot to the forehead is his speciality.’

  ‘We might be about to meet him. Someone – or something – approaches.’

  That’s the last thing on earth I wanted Armand to say. He’s crouched in the stairwell, his eyes dancing with excitement. He raises a finger to his lips, indicates silence, then points up the stairs.

  We scurry forward and halt in the stairwell, listening for what has alerted Armand. About a minute passes before, from somewhere above us, we hear scraping footfalls. It’s hard to tell exactly which level they are coming from. Sound resonates in here like an accidentally dropped Bible in church during the Lord’s Prayer. But it’s certainly not coming from the floor directly above us. My guess is several floors up.

  BLAM!

  A firearm discharges. I jump so high it’s a miracle my head doesn’t smash into the ceiling. The sound, reverberating down the stairwell, is deafening, like firing a cannon in a confessional box. It’s followed by sounds of a scuffle: the swish of a blade, and an agonised scream, almost inhuman in its blood-gargled terror. Then we hear rushing feet and snatches of panicked voices. Coming down the stairwell.

  Coming straight towards us!

  We retreat back down the corridor. Captain Faust divides us into two groups and instructs us to disperse into two rooms on opposite sides of the corridor. We are to then wait in ambush. If it turns out to be witches, we are to let them pass. We don’t want to alert the Brotherhood of our presence and give away the element of surprise. But if it’s the Brotherhood, we will spring our trap. Caught between the witches and our blades, and trapped within the narrow confines of the corridor, we should be able to cut them down.

  I barely dare breathe for fear of giving away our position. As God is my witness, I have never before felt so afraid. It feels as if I have a cannonball lodged in my throat, and I give a nervous gulp. I then spare a quick glance over my shoulder. I’m in the room with the dead witches. I hope that’s not a premonition of what befalls this room’s occupants.

  Armand, Klaus and Captain Faust are positioned in front of me, their weapons poised, crouched like a pack of wolves hunting the scent of death.

  ‘Get ready. They’re coming,’ Captain Faust whispers. ‘If it’s the Brotherhood, let them pass before we attack. Pistols first. Then we close with blades.’

  Thank God for that. I am dreading the thought of being involved in another vicious hand-to-hand fight. The last witch I fought was too fast, latching herself onto me before I had time to ready my rapier. I won’t make that mistake again. These pistols are going to make sure that no witch – or member of the Brotherhood of the Cross – is going to come within ten yards of me.

  Armand licks his lips in anticipation of combat, like a dog salivating before a meal. ‘Remember – Kurt is mine,’ he whispers.

  ‘Don’t be too eager,’ Klaus warns, as cool as chilled wine. ‘Many men have dreamed of killing him. They are now all buried under six feet of earth.’

  Armand snickers recklessly in return, as if this chapter in history is already written, his victory over Kurt von Wolfenbüttel assured. He looks back at me.

  ‘As promised, I’ll do my best to guard over you,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t rush in after me. Stay back and use your pistols.’

  I hold them before me. ‘Believe me, you don’t need to tell me that.’

  I barely have time to check they are readied before the corridor erupts with frenzied movement.

  Our quarry has exited the stairwell.

  My head snaps up, my muscles as tense as a drawn bow string as someone bolts past our room. Terrified, I nonetheless try to peer past my companions in an attempt to see who – or what – it is. But I’m stopped by Armand. He draws back one of his sabres, holding me in position, indicating I’m to wait.

  There’s the sound of more rushing feet. It’s obviously the witches, otherwise Captain Faust, standing closest to the door, would have sprung the trap. He remains as fixed as one of the Pope’s Swiss Guards on sentry duty.

  A few heartbeats pass. All goes deathly quiet; then we hear movement again. Only this time, the sound is distinctly different. There’s no panic but measured steps in leather-soled boots. They pause at the base of the stairwell, almost as if assessing the situation. Over a minute passes before they move forward again.

  But this time with stealth, and stopping just short of our room.

  This has suddenly developed into my worst nightmare. As far as I know, Kurt von Wolfenbüttel – the man who cannot be killed – is standing on the opposite side of the wall I’m hiding behind. I can picture him in my mind, the features of his white-painted face twisted in savage fury
, his weapons drawn, waiting to tear into us like a wolf about to launch into a chicken coop.

  So what do we do now? Simply stand here and wait for the Brotherhood to burst into our room? Or do we leap out, salvaging what remains of our element of surprise?

  The tension’s so palpable you could scoop it into a bucket and sell it off as soup. I don’t even dare swallow lest the noise give away our position. You have to admire my companions, though, particularly Captain Faust. He hasn’t moved a muscle. I’ve seen statues that are more animated.

  It’s just then, however, that the Captain does stir. He cranes his head forward, tries to hear what’s happening in the corridor. Barely a second passes before he snaps his head back to look at us, his eyes wide in alarm. He flicks back his rapier, ushering us deeper into the room.

  We have barely shuffled back four steps before we hear the sound that has alarmed Captain Faust – a soft hissing sound. My mind has barely had time to register the implications of this before it is lobbed into the room – a cannonball, with an ignited fuse!

  Grenades have been in use for some time now. I recall reading that one had been used during a skirmish at Hampstead Bridge during the English Civil War. In that instance, a single grenade repelled a cavalry charge, destroyed the bridge, and took the life of the poor soldier who lit it.

  They are essentially a hollowed cannonball shell filled with gunpowder and ignited by a wick. Arguably one of the most destructive weapons invented.

  Up until now, I have never before seen one. And I can think of a million ways I’d rather see my first. Having one lobbed into the room you are standing in isn’t exactly a comforting experience.

  Klaus, Armand and Captain Faust are one step ahead of me. No sooner have I had the thought of being splattered all over the walls than we are bolting for the room’s window. I’ve never seen men move so fast. It all happens so quickly, in fact, that for a moment I forget how high up we are, and I almost cry out in warning to my companions. But then I remember that we are still on the ground floor, and the next instant I find myself diving out the window after them.