by Stuart Daly
I salute von Wolfenbüttel with my blade and move to walk past him. Too tired to even clutch his wounds, and slumped against the wall, he looks as if he is at death’s door. But a restraining hand seizes my shoulder.
Armand steps past me. ‘You’re a young man full of surprises, Jakob,’ he says, staring at von Wolfenbüttel and wiping a sleeve across his shattered mouth. ‘Not only have you slain three witches today, but you have defeated one of the most feared killers in the Holy Roman Empire. I am in debt to you. It looks as if you saved my life. But this fight isn’t over yet. It’s best if you leave the final stroke to me.’
Realising he intends to kill von Wolfenbüttel – who is struggling to find the energy to stand, let alone raise his sword in defence – I shake my head and grab Armand. ‘For the love of God, Armand, have some mercy. Can’t you see the man is dying? This fight is finished.’
Armand pulls away from me, looks at me apologetically. ‘You should know that war is a bloody affair. And in this case, I cannot exercise mercy. He has killed more men than you could ever imagine. To let him walk from here would be a grave mistake. I like this no more than you do, but you must learn that God and priests deal with mercy. We deal with death.’
I realise that Armand and I are a world apart. I could never bring myself to kill an injured person, even an enemy who had only moments before been trying to take my own life. There are some fundamental qualities – such as compassion and mercy – that lie deep in my heart, and I will not compromise them. Once that line is crossed, I believe I would lose the qualities that make me human, and make me no better than an animal. I would have taken my first steps on the bloody path of a cold-blooded killer. And I am not prepared to take those steps.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to do this,’ I say, and place myself between Armand and von Wolfenbüttel. ‘I won’t allow you to kill an injured man.’
‘Please, Jakob, step aside. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.’
‘Armand, please!’ I say imploringly, and hold Armand with my eyes. ‘This man is already at death’s door. He is no longer a threat to us. There has been too much killing today. If there is going to be any good to come out of this mission, let it be this one act of mercy. Please. You told me before that you hoped to achieve your soul’s salvation by following a path of righteousness. Then let this be your first step.’
Armand looks at me for some time before his eyes soften in acquiescence. ‘I may live to regret this decision,’ he says reluctantly and sheathes his blades. ‘But you are right – there has been a lot of bloodshed this day. Perhaps some good will come from sparing this man’s life.’
I pat Armand on the shoulder and smile gratefully, thankful that he heeded my appeal for clemency.
A pistol shot shatters the stillness from behind me.
What?
Armand is hit! He spins like a top before he slams – headfirst – into the corridor wall. There’s a sickening crack, like a watermelon being thrown against a brick wall. Then he slumps to the floor.
Horrified, I snap around, just in time to see the guard of a rapier crash into my jaw, knocking me senseless to the ground.
A blinding pain in my shoulder draws me back to consciousness.
I stir, raise myself onto an elbow and take in my surroundings. I’m lying on a rubble-strewn floor in an unfamiliar room – an abandoned banquet hall, by the look of it. There’s a hearth in the far corner, and a large central table, surrounded by over two dozen chairs, dominates the room. Paintings, mostly portraits, adorn the walls. There must be over fifty of them. Some look hundreds of years old, the oil cracked and peeling. They are all of women, clad in rags stained yellow with age, and their crooked noses and evil eyes make my skin crawl.
To my surprise, my weapons are stacked in a pile by my side. All of my wounds have been bandaged and a sweet-smelling salve has been applied to my bruised jaw. In spite of this, my body is riddled with aches and pains, and I lay there for a while, trying to work out what has happened. I can recall the fight with von Wolfenbüttel and my argument with Armand. A cold shudder runs down my spine as I recall a pistol being fired, hitting Armand, and then a rapier being smashed into my jaw. For some strange reason, I cannot remove the image of a wolf from my mind. But I have no recollection as to how I ended up in this room. I must have been carried here when I was unconscious.
There are voices over to my right, raised in argument. Someone’s blaspheming loudly, savagely. A pack of rabid dogs fighting over a bone are more cordial.
I crane my head around, my eyes locking instantly on a body near the hearth, lying in a pool of blood. I can’t see the face, but the clothing reveals that it’s not one of our order. I can only assume that it must be one of the Brotherhood of the Cross.
Then I find my companions, and blink back against the impossibility of what I see. Are my eyes deceiving me? Is this some fatigue-induced illusion? It must be. Why else would Lieutenant Blodklutt have von Frankenthal, Bethlen and Armand – who I can’t believe is still alive – bailed up against a wall?
And at gunpoint!
I climb to my feet. A wave of dizziness overcomes me, and I’m forced to wait several seconds before the reeling sensation subsides. Having equipped my weapons, I make my way over to the Lieutenant, who turns and looks at me. He offers no welcoming smile to see me up on my feet again, just a cold stare. His features are set in a determined scowl, as if he has a grim task ahead of him.
I point at the body by the hearth. ‘Who’s that? What’s going on?’
‘Leopold von Wolfenbüttel,’ he says dismissively, as if he has more pressing concerns to deal with. And, by the looks of it, he does. ‘Here,’ he adds, and tosses me a rope. ‘I want them bound.’
‘I won’t be tied up like some stuck pig!’ von Frankenthal roars at Lieutenant Blodklutt. ‘Lower that blasted weapon!’
Von Frankenthal is standing against the wall along with Armand and Bethlen. Their hands are raised above their heads, and their weapons lie out of reach in a bundle on the central table. I’ve never seen von Frankenthal so furious. I just hope he doesn’t lose complete control of his temper.
Lieutenant Blodklutt aims his pistol directly at him. ‘You move an inch and I’ll shoot! And you know I’ll do it.’
I shake my head in confusion, struggling to comprehend what’s happening. ‘Let’s just all calm down. Can someone please tell me what’s going on?’
My words fall on deaf ears. If Blodklutt is staring daggers, von Frankenthal is staring a double-handed broadsword. It’s going to take more than a simple plea to defuse this situation.
‘You had better make sure you tie me up well,’ von Frankenthal rumbles at me. ‘Because the second I’m free there’s going to be a bloodbath!’
The menace in his voice is enough to make my hands tremble, and I look across at Blodklutt, afraid of what to do. But the Lieutenant doesn’t take his eyes off von Frankenthal. He gestures towards the Hexenjäger with his pistol.
‘Go ahead,’ he instructs me. ‘Tie them up.’
I take a hesitant step forward, but then stop. What am I to do? I feel caught in the middle. I don’t want to disobey a direct order from a senior member of the Hexenjäger, but I cannot bring myself to bind my companions, particularly Armand, who has become a friend and mentor. And, mixed loyalties aside, I’d rather not get on von Frankenthal’s bad side.
‘What about him?’ Bethlen blurts out, obviously trying to save his own skin, and points at me. ‘He’s the one you’re after. I know he is. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can shoot.’
I look at Bethlen and shake my head in disgust. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m sure he’d betray his own mother if it meant saving his own skin.
‘Robert and Jakob are the only people on this mission who I know I can trust,’ Blodklutt says. ‘Now, not another word from you.’
‘But …’
The Lieutenant directs his pistol at Bethlen. ‘I said not another word.
Now, Jakob, tie them.’
I cross reluctantly over to my companions and start to bind Bethlen’s hands behind his back. He struggles at first and pushes his shoulder into my chest, forcing me back several steps. Bethlen stops struggling once the Lieutenant levels his pistol at him, allowing me to finish binding his arms.
‘You’ll pay for this, whelp!’ he says, glaring at me.
Ignoring the comment, I move over to Armand. ‘I’m glad to see you,’ I whisper in his ear. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘It’s going to take more than a graze from a pistol ball to kill me,’ he whispers back.
My mind flashes back to the corridor and the final moments of the encounter with von Wolfenbüttel. I remember the pistol shot hitting Armand, spinning him like a top and slamming him headfirst into the wall. But whereas I had thought that the shot had killed him, the ball must have only grazed his left shoulder. That would account for the fresh bandage applied there. It doesn’t, however, solve the mystery as to who attacked us in the corridor. It had to have been the Holy Spirit. With Leopold lying dead in this room, who else could it have been? Maybe Lieutenant Blodklutt and the others might be able to shed some light on the matter. But I don’t think right now is the best moment to raise the issue. It’s best if I first find out what’s happening.
‘What’s going on?’ I whisper, my hat tilted low so that the Lieutenant can’t see my lips move.
‘I don’t know,’ Armand returns, his hat likewise tilted, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘But this isn’t good. It’s best if you just go along with Blodklutt for the moment. He thinks he can trust you. I hope you know who your friends are here.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I say, ensuring that Armand’s hands are bound loosely, making for an easy escape if need be.
‘So what do you intend to do with us now?’ von Frankenthal asks, his voice a rumble of barely controlled rage.
‘Find out the truth,’ Lieutenant Blodklutt returns.
‘The truth? Concerning what?’ Armand asks, baffled.
‘Over the course of the past year, many of our order have met with peril,’ the Lieutenant explains. ‘What should have been relatively easy missions have resulted in the death of some of our most seasoned fighters. When seven Hexenjäger failed to return from a simple reconnaissance mission to a graveyard on the outskirts of Wittenberg last April, we started to get suspicious. Captain Faust and I were sent to the town to investigate the matter. But the Hexenjäger didn’t even make it to their destination. We found their bodies in shallow graves by the roadside. We exhumed them, and discovered that several had died by single pistol shots to the forehead. Upon further investigation, we found that they had been killed with silver pistol balls – engraved with crucifixes.’
What? Kurt von Wolfenbüttel? A cold chill settles into my bones and makes the hair on my arms stand on end.
‘We also learned that the Brotherhood of the Cross had eliminated the other Hexenjäger,’ Lieutenant Blodklutt continues. ‘They were targeting our order. It was obvious that they were being informed of our movements. And so we started to look within the Hexenjäger for the leak.
‘Captain Faust had been working in secret for some time; not searching for the Trumpet of Jericho, but spying on our order. He’s been watching your movements, studying who entered and left Burg Grimmheim, trying to find out how information was being passed onto the Brotherhood. It didn’t take him long to learn that there was a spy within our ranks.’ The Lieutenant pauses for effect and studies the faces of the three men held at gunpoint, analysing their reactions. ‘This entire mission was designed to catch that spy. It’s nothing more than a mole hunt.’
I’m about to start tying von Frankenthal, but I stop. Did I just hear that right? A mole hunt? And a spy within the Hexenjäger! This is hard to digest. We’re wearing expressions on our faces as though we’ve just witnessed the Resurrection.
‘So what of the trumpet? And what of the Blood Countess?’ I blurt out.
Blodklutt’s eyes are locked on the three suspects. ‘I’m sure the trumpet exists,’ he says. ‘But we’re not going to find it. We concocted the story of the labyrinth and trumpet to ensure that we could lure the Brotherhood here. They would not be able to resist such bait. And as for the Countess – well, she exists. And I intend to deal with her once we resolve this issue.’
Von Frankenthal has calmed down now, but he’s certainly not happy with Blodklutt’s news. He shakes his head in bewilderment. ‘What makes you so sure that the spy is one of us?’
‘Captain Faust narrowed his investigation to four suspects,’ the Lieutenant explains. ‘You three, and Klaus. But since Klaus was killed by the Brotherhood, we can eliminate him from the list. They would not risk killing their own spy. And although you assisted me in fighting Leopold, your blade never drew his blood. Nor did Bethlen’s, for that matter. It was my blade alone that slew him. I can personally vouch for Robert, and Jakob has only been with us for one week.
‘We know for a fact that the spy infiltrated the Hexenjäger over a year ago, corresponding with the time that you three joined our order.’ The Lieutenant pauses as he studies the reactions of the witch hunters from behind the barrel of his pistol. ‘It also seemed too coincidental that the three of you were present in the Grand Hexenjäger’s office, when the ill-fated mission to the graveyard in Wittenberg had been assigned. Along with Klaus, you were all part of the initial team, but had to be reassigned to other missions later that evening. You were the only ones who knew the exact route the Hexenjäger were going to take. Although you were all reassigned to different missions, you would have had time to pass a message on to the Brotherhood of the Cross. And there have been other instances where you have been reassigned, only for the original missions to end in peril.’ He pauses, his steel-grey eyes narrowing menacingly. ‘Meaning that one of you is the spy. And we aren’t leaving this room until I work out who it is.’
Shocked, I step warily away from my companions. One of them is a spy for the Brotherhood of the Cross. But who? I have no reason whatsoever to suspect von Frankenthal. Apart from the incident with Gerhard, I actually don’t know much about the man. And I’d hate to think that it would be Armand. He has, however, led an immoral past. Could it be that his penance and desire to start life anew are simply feigned? Has he been hired by the Brotherhood to infiltrate the Hexenjäger and pass on information vital to the destruction of the order? The lure of gold can turn many a man’s heart, even upright and righteous men who do not have shadowy pasts.
If the spy is not von Frankenthal or Armand, then it must be Bethlen. He has confessed to rising to his position in life through cunning and brawn. He comes across as somewhat of an opportunist, and I don’t feel there is much loyalty in his heart to any cause. He’s the sort of person who could be easily swayed by the promise of gold. Furthermore, I recall the feigned surprise in his voice when we first discovered that someone else was inside the castle. Had he known all along that the Brotherhood of the Cross were inside Schloss Kriegsberg? Could he be the one who informed them of our actions?
‘You’re taking one hell of a risk tying us up,’ Armand says, rolling his wounded shoulder, trying to make himself more comfortable. ‘If what you are saying is correct, then two of us are innocent. And there are still witches and the Countess hiding somewhere within these walls, not to mention the Holy Spirit and Kurt von Wolfenbüttel. I don’t even want to think about what will happen if they suddenly decide to converge on this room. We won’t be much help to you all tied up. It will be up to you and Jakob.’
Now that’s a very valid point. I suddenly feel vulnerable, and cast an uneasy eye around the room, half expecting a swarm of crones to burst in on us. I don’t know how long Lieutenant Blodklutt and I would last against them.
It’s also only now I become aware that I’ve been so intent on listening to the Lieutenant that I haven’t bound von Frankenthal’s hands. I don’t think I will, either. If he is the spy, then Blodklutt can take
care of him with his pistol. But if he isn’t the spy, I’d hate to have tied up von Frankenthal and have the witches appear.
A striking thought makes my brow crease in confusion. Did Armand say that von Wolfenbüttel is still hiding somewhere within the keep? How is that possible? Not unless the man is descended from Lazarus. The man was at death’s door when I last saw him.
‘Kurt von Wolfenbüttel?’ I question. ‘He could barely stand. How can he still be alive?’
Armand shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. But apparently he is.’
‘That’s impossible. Where’s your evidence?’
Armand gestures with his head towards the Lieutenant. ‘Ask him.’
‘I found you and Armand lying unconscious in the corridor,’ Blodklutt explains. ‘I conducted a quick search of the ground floor of the keep – there was no sign of Kurt. Until we find his body we had best consider him alive and dangerous.’
‘They don’t call him the man who can’t be killed for nothing,’ Armand adds. ‘But back to more pressing concerns, how are you going to find out who the spy is? Brand us with hot irons? Look, I just want this matter resolved as quickly as possible.’
I don’t think Lieutenant Blodklutt’s going to rush this. From what I’ve seen, he’s a man of patience. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of us start balding before we exit this hall.
‘We’ll take as long as it takes,’ he says, his voice cold. Even an executioner’s sneer has more compassion.
Armand lowers his head in resignation. He looks up again, as if to say something, but he catches himself and cranes his head forward. His eyes narrow, and he stares at me, hard.
‘That mark on your face,’ he says, and gestures with his eyes towards my left cheek. ‘How did you get it?’
I touch my wounded jaw. ‘Compliments of the man who shot you. He smashed his rapier into my face. But it all happened so fast that I never got to see who it was.’
