The Witch Hunter Chronicles 1

by Stuart Daly

  Scrambling to our feet, we sprint for our lives. Armand moves over to my side, tries to shield me from the imminent explosion.

  We have only cleared ten yards when – BOOM! – the explosion rips through the room behind us. It tears a gaping hole through the exterior wall, knocking us off our feet, showering us in debris and filling the air with smoke.

  Along with Armand and Captain Faust, I clamber to my feet. My head’s swimming so much I can barely stand. It feels as though I’ve been sideswiped by a carriage. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I notice that Klaus hasn’t moved. He’s lying prostrate on the ground, covered in rubble.

  I reach for my discarded pistols, then head over towards Klaus. I’ve almost reached his side when I notice that his eyes are wide open, staring up at me lifelessly.

  I stop dead in my tracks. The revelation that Klaus has not survived the explosion hits me like a sledge-hammer. Only a second ago he was sprinting by my side. And now he’s lying there, bloodied and torn – dead.

  Dazed from the explosion, and shocked by the sudden loss of one of my companions, I turn to look back at the room, just in time to see a gloved hand, brandishing a flintlock pistol, emerge through the smoke.

  I freeze.

  From the smoke-engulfed room a face materialises, painted white, twisted in savage hatred.

  Kurt von Wolfenbüttel!

  He takes aim with his pistol. But we’re packed so close together – helping each other scramble to our feet and collecting our weapons – it’s impossible to tell who he’s aiming at. I can only hope that the smoke will spoil his aim. But I fear we don’t stand a chance, not at this range.

  Not even Armand has his defences ready. He’s wiping blood from a deep gash on his neck, his sabres lying where he dropped them, his face as smudged and dirtied as a street urchin who’s been bobbing for apples in the city dump.

  I don’t even have time to raise my pistols before – BLAM! – von Wolfenbüttel’s gun erupts in a powdered flash. Fearing I may have been the target of his shot, I flinch instinctively, clutch my chest, at the gaping wound I expect to find there. But I’m amazed to find that there is no wound.

  My relief turns to horror when I catch movement in the corner of my eye. Someone staggers forward, their hat torn from their head by the impact of the pistol ball that has smashed through their skull.

  My jaw drops in disbelief as Captain Faust drops dead to the courtyard floor.

  I stand dumbstruck, staring at Captain Faust’s still form, struggling to come to terms with not only the death of another of my companions, but the death of our commanding officer.

  Armand, however, doesn’t miss a beat. Captain Faust has barely hit the ground before he retrieves his sabres, races forward and engages von Wolfenbüttel – who has just drawn his blade and emerged through the hole in the wall – in a savage duel.

  I snap back to reality. Now is not the right time to grieve for the fallen. Not when still on the battlefield, and particularly not when Armand may be in need of my assistance. And so, not wanting to risk the possibility of shooting Armand, I tuck my pistols into my belt, draw my rapier and sprint over to Armand’s side.

  Von Wolfenbüttel is a behemoth, taller and wider than Christian von Frankenthal. He looks like a titan from Greek legend, as powerful as the Bastille, his face more scarred than a butcher’s chopping board – evidence of the many wounds he has endured; testimony that this man cannot be killed.

  ‘Let me help you,’ I say, but at a complete loss as to what assistance I can offer the French duellist.

  Armand shakes his head vehemently, presses the attack. ‘No. He’s too dangerous an opponent. Stand back.’

  Armand can warn me all he wants, but not even a dozen stallions would be enough to drag me away from this fight. I’ve already seen two of my companions slain by von Wolfenbüttel. I’m not going to allow him to kill Armand and record his death as a scar on his forearm. Besides, I’ll stand no chance whatsoever in trying to fight von Wolfenbüttel single-handedly. And so, ignoring Armand, my confidence bolstered by the fact that I have already slain three witches, I skirt behind the behemoth, waiting for an opening to appear.

  But von Wolfenbüttel is no fool and knows exactly what I’m trying to do. He keeps mobile, moving with a dexterity that defies his massive frame. He darts to the left, springs to the right, then shifts back to the left again, not allowing me to attack him in his exposed flank – or blind spot.

  Armand, however, is determined to go for a quick kill. Perhaps this is dictated by the fact that he fears for my safety and wishes to kill von Wolfenbüttel before I am injured. I’m sure he’s also being driven by his bloodlust and desire to enact revenge for the death of his companions. He feigns to his left, then darts back to the right, lightning-fast, catching von Wolfenbüttel off-balance. One of Armand’s sabres then snakes out at von Wolfenbüttel’s thighs. At the same instant, I lunge forward, my heart pounding, my rapier aimed at the exposed left-hand side of von Wolfenbüttel’s chest.

  This should do it. If these thrusts don’t kill von Wolfenbüttel they will at least leave him maimed. It will then only be a matter of time before we bring him down. But any sense of victory is short-lived, for we have underestimated our opponent.

  Just as our blades are about to hit their targets, von Wolfenbüttel regains his balance, as if it were a ploy to lure us in, committing us to attacks that would leave our own defences open. Before I know what has happened, von Wolfenbüttel becomes a blur of motion, launching himself in the air. Armand’s sabre slashes harmlessly beneath his feet. Twisting in mid-air, von Wolfenbüttel parries my blade, then delivers an impossibly fast riposte to my chest. At the same instant, his right foot lashes out, slamming into Armand’s face with the force of a rifle butt.

  By the time von Wolfenbüttel’s feet find the ground, Armand lays sprawled on the cobblestone floor, senseless, and I’m staggering back, a cut to my left shoulder.

  It all happened within the blink of an eye. Impossible! I never knew anybody could wield a sword with such blinding speed. Von Wolfenbüttel would rival even Lieutenant Blodklutt.

  What chance do Armand and I possibly have in defeating him? Practically none, particularly now that he has the advantage. And he does not hesitate in seizing it. Within a heartbeat he’s taken two strides. He stands over Armand, his blade drawn back in preparation to deliver a death thrust, the coup de grâce.

  Armand lays dazed on the ground, spitting blood, unaware of the nightmare looming over him. But von Wolfenbüttel hesitates for a second – like a child considering an insect it’s about to kill.

  And in that second I act, snatching a pistol from my belt. I don’t even have time to take aim before I squeeze the trigger. There’s a powdered flash and a deafening report. My hand is thrown back by the recoil, bringing a blinding pain to my wounded left shoulder.

  Then I hear a cry. But it’s not a cry of pain – it’s demented anger!

  Von Wolfenbüttel lowers his blade, clutches his right shoulder, draws back his hand and stares at the blood. His head snaps around. He looks at me, his face twisted in a rage more explosive then a detonated gunpowder keg.

  God help me!

  I may have saved Armand, but I don’t like my chance of surviving the next few seconds.

  Von Wolfenbüttel comes at me with the fury of a charging bear, practically snorting steam through his nostrils, blood hammering in his temple, his blade slashing wildly. If ever there was a time for divine intervention, it would be right now. But no angel miraculously materialises to repel von Wolfenbüttel’s attack, and for the second time today I’m left to fend for myself.

  I’m almost bowled over by von Wolfenbüttel’s charge. I barely manage to side-step his assault and prepare a defensive stance. Then he’s on top of me like a thunderstorm, his blade delivering a barrage of lightning bolts. Terrified, I cower in fear and give ground, keeping my guard up in a desperate attempt to stay alive. I give ground so rapidly that I’m sure it’s the onl
y thing keeping me alive, for von Wolfenbüttel cannot get close enough to deliver a killing blow. I just pray that Armand will soon come to his senses and save me. Otherwise, it will only be a matter of time before my luck runs out and I end up skewered on the end of von Wolfenbüttel’s rapier.

  Fortunately, my pistol shot managed to cripple von Wolfenbüttel, putting his right arm – his sword-arm – out of action. He’s now wielding his blade in his left hand, moving with far less confidence. His attack is still relentless and impossibly strong, raining blows upon me like a blacksmith hammering a bar of hot iron into shape.

  All I can hear is the squeal of our blades and the shuffle of our feet across the flagstone floor of the courtyard. Whereas von Wolfenbüttel is evidently experienced in the art of swordplay and comes after me in a traversing dance of death, I am simply fighting to stay alive. Oddly, I find myself recalling Armand’s earlier comment that a sword hums a song when it enters combat. I wish the song made by von Wolfenbüttel’s blade would hurry up and end. Then I could pass von Wolfenbüttel off to another dancing partner. As Armand is still struggling to gain his feet, however, it looks as though I’m going to have to see this dance out.

  But this is starting to take its toll on my sword hand. My blade is vibrating fiercely, making my hand numb. I feel like discarding my blade and dunking my hand into a bucket of chilled water. But there’s no such luxury here. Not when I’m fighting for my life. And so my blade works overtime, transformed into a blur of silver, trying desperately to parry von Wolfenbüttel’s storm of steel. If I can make it to the other side of the keep, Robert, positioned above us in the tower, will be able to get a clear shot at him. Though any hope of achieving that goal is lost when I’m forced back through the hole in the wall.

  I have barely entered the room, the floor of which is littered with smoking chunks of stone torn from the walls and ceiling by the exploding bomb, when I trip over some rubble and lose my footing. I fall backwards, my eyes wide with terror, as I watch von Wolfenbüttel tear after me, his blade drawn back in preparation to skewer me where I lie. Driven by fear, I scramble desperately across the floor, narrowly avoiding his blade, making it back to the room’s doorway. I barely have time to climb to my feet before von Wolfenbüttel swings wildly at my head. I duck instinctively, and the blade, which whizzes through the air only an inch above my head, hits the wall at full force.

  I scramble back into the central corridor, just as I see a massive chunk of rock, dislodged by the impact of von Wolfenbüttel’s blade, fall from the doorway’s lintel. But von Wolfenbüttel, standing directly beneath the lintel, cannot see it coming, and the first knowledge he has of the falling rock is when it crashes down onto his head. There’s a sickening crack, and he slumps to his knees, his features contorted in pain. But the impact, which would have cracked the skull or snapped the neck of a lesser man, only serves to infuriate von Wolfenbüttel. His eyes blazing with savage fury, and blood streaming from the open wound on the top of his head, he pushes himself to his feet and staggers after me.

  I move down the corridor, somehow managing to hold my ground, my blade a whirr of slashing silver. Just when I think I can’t hold out much longer, and I start to wonder what has become of my remaining companions – who I thought would have come to my aid by now, the last I saw of them being when they hastened into the room on the opposite side of the corridor – von Wolfenbüttel’s storm starts to abate. Can it be that he’s starting to tire? There’s a trail of blood dripping freely down the side of his head, and the pistol wound he received earlier is sapping his strength. I only have to withstand a few more savage lunges before he pauses, steps back, breathes heavily, and holds his blade low.

  My confidence gaining each second, and the call of my father’s blood spurring me onward, I shuffle forward and engage von Wolfenbüttel in a new dance. However, this time I lead, pressing the attack, testing how much energy he has left. But I move cautiously. He’s tricked me once before into committing an attack that left me exposed and vulnerable, so I’m wary that his fatigue may be feigned.

  Taking Armand’s previous advice, I decide it’s time to see if I can orchestrate a symphony of death. But whilst I have the will, I lack the skill, and my symphony of death degenerates into a hotchpotch of desperate thrusts followed by panicked gambles at defence against von Wolfenbüttel’s counter-attacks. I’m just lucky that my opponent is not only exhausted and badly wounded, but his sword-arm has been incapacitated. Otherwise, I fear I would have been killed in the opening second of this fight.

  But there’s no need to hurry my attack, for time is on my side. Quite remarkably, the only wound I have sustained from von Wolfenbüttel has been the slash across my shoulder. Although the wound is sore, it is bearable, and it’s certainly not taking as much of a toll on me as the wounds sustained by von Wolfenbüttel. Armand has finally regained his feet, collected his blades and staggered into the corridor. Still, he won’t be coming to my aid just yet. He’s collapsed against the wall, and only seems vaguely aware of his surroundings.

  Taking a deep breath, I try to relax my breathing and recall some of the attacks I had studied in Salvator Fabris’s treatise on the art of swordplay. There was an attack in the second chapter that I had once practised for an entire week. Deciding to see if it will work in practice, I take two steps forward, feign to thrust at von Wolfenbüttel’s torso and, at the last moment, flick my wrist up, redirecting my blade at his face.

  Von Wolfenbüttel shuffles back and manages to parry the attack. But only just. Before he has time to regain his composure, I lunge forward with a linear thrust directed at his right thigh. Caught by surprise, von Wolfenbüttel sweeps his blade wide across his body. It’s a desperate attempt to block my attack. And it fails.

  I give a triumphant cry as my rapier bites deep into its target, delivering a deep, crippling wound. I’m sure that such a wound would normally mark the end of a duel, the certain incapacitation of its recipient. Before I can withdraw my blade, von Wolfenbüttel does the impossible: he snatches the blade of my rapier with his gloved hand.

  A vicious tug of war develops. My blade slices through the leather glove, biting deep into von Wolfenbüttel’s fingers. But he holds fast, his fingers locked around my rapier like a vice. I feel as though I’m one of King Arthur’s contenders, trying to draw Excalibur from the stone.

  The next instant, he bites his bottom lip in pain and yanks back his right foot, dislodging me from my feet, and drawing me straight into his chest. Arms like iron lock around me. I try to wrestle free, but it’s useless. I might as well be trying to break through prison cell bars.

  As if things couldn’t get any worse, one of von Wolfenbüttel’s hands clamps around my neck and starts to squeeze the life out of me. In desperation, I grab my rapier – still impaled in his thigh – and drive it deeper into his leg. His body shudders in pain, but he doesn’t release his grip. If anything, he seems to squeeze even harder

  The pain is unbearable! I fear my neck is going to snap. Everything’s starting to go blurry and I can’t breathe. If one of my companions doesn’t come to my rescue this very instant I’m sure I’ll be dead within the next few heartbeats. But none of the Hexenjäger appear, and with what I’m sure is my dying breath, I reach for the remaining pistol tucked into my belt, and – BLAM! – discharge it straight into von Wolfenbüttel’s chest.

  Von Wolfenbüttel releases his grip instantly. I slump to the floor, gulping air like a fish out of water. And it’s then, through tear-filled eyes, I see von Wolfenbüttel and shake my head in disbelief.

  Impossible! He’s still standing.

  With a resolve I never knew I had, I reach out, extracting my rapier from von Wolfenbüttel’s thigh. I then clamber to my feet.

  ‘You cannot be human!’ I cry.

  In response, von Wolfenbüttel, his features still twisted in rage, lets a fist – the size of a shoulder of ham – fly at my face.

  That’s not exactly the reply I was expecting. I pull back my head
at the last moment, turning a direct hit into a glancing blow. Still, it’s enough to knock me off my feet. It feels as if my nose has been spread an extra two inches across my face.

  I scramble back across the floor, holding my rapier before me in a futile attempt at defence. But von Wolfenbüttel doesn’t pursue his attack. Instead, he staggers back, one hand clutching his chest; the other still gripping his blade. He then steadies himself, braces himself against the corridor wall and stares at me through death-glazed eyes.

  He’s an absolute mess. His tabard is drenched in blood, his features twisted in pain, and he can barely lift his sword. I’m amazed that he can muster the strength to stand.

  I regain my feet. But there’s no point in carrying on with this fight. Von Wolfenbüttel doesn’t even stir. He looks as though he’s going to drop dead at any moment. I lower my blade, signifying the fight is over.

  Now I can hear sounds of combat coming from within the keep – from the floor directly above me, to be precise. I can clearly identify Lieutenant Blodklutt barking commands, and the distinct twang and squeal of steel on steel. My remaining companions must have located Leopold von Wolfenbüttel and the Holy Spirit.

  This is all too much. I’ve been nearly scratched to death by a witch, had a bomb explode near me, battled the most feared man in Europe, been slashed across the shoulder, strangled, and – finally – punched. The last thing I feel like doing is tearing into another fray. Can’t I just call it a day and sheathe my blade? Find the nearest inn and fall asleep in a hot bath? I don’t think my fellow companions would begrudge me that simple pleasure. I’ve done more than my fair share of fighting today.

  Yet my companions may be in danger. I’m not sure how much assistance I’ll be able to offer them, but I can’t just wait here, listening to the sounds of combat, skulking like some coward in the shadows.