by Stuart Daly
In contrast, Klaus and Armand make the rest of us look like a pack of amateurs. Their blades are hissing streaks of silver, slicing through any witch foolish enough to come too close. Although I don’t know how much longer Armand will be able to keep this up. He’s nursing more injuries than an infirmary full of wounded soldiers.
Klaus has already vanquished three crones, their twisted bodies lying at his feet. He’s moving with a relaxed fluidity, as though this is all second nature to him. His skill with a rapier almost defies comprehension, and I very much fear that, even if we manage to survive this encounter, we won’t stand a chance against him. Perhaps the fight against the witches will remind Klaus and Lieutenant Blodklutt that we fight against a common evil, and that we should not allow our religious differences to make us enemies. I fear there’s a greater chance of Hell converting to Christianity, however, before that will happen.
Neither Klaus nor Armand can come to my aid. They have taken positions on either side of Lieutenant Blodklutt, like sentinels guarding the entrance to the Holy of Holies. They are so focused on protecting him that neither is aware of my situation.
The Lieutenant’s head is buried in the Malleus Maleficarum, mumbling phrases in some unknown language. I don’t know if it’s a figment of my imagination, but the leather-bound volume seems to be emitting a blue glow. However, it’s not as if I’m in any position to wander over to have a closer look, particularly when the witch I’m facing has now closed to within striking range. And by the way she’s brandishing her claws and staring at my throat, she intends to go straight for my jugular.
The hag’s eyes lock on my rapier, the only thing keeping her at bay. She smiles maliciously, points at the blade with a bone-like finger, and starts to chant a different spell. The next instant, flames burst along the length of my sword. It’s at this point – with the witch having broken her initial spell, which had paralysed me from the waist down – that I regain control of my feet.
I toss my blade aside as if it were an asp. But my rapier hasn’t even touched the ground before the crone comes at me, as fast as a beggar diving on a coin, straight for my throat. I leap back, fumbling over a chair and losing my footing – just at the exact moment the witch flies past me. Her claws slash wildly at my throat. But her momentum carries her over my head, slamming her into the banquet table, knocking her senseless.
Knowing that I must capitalise on this opportunity, I scramble to my feet. I draw my remaining dagger and pounce onto the witch. One quick slash across her throat and it’s all over.
Averting my eyes from the grizzly scene, I rise from the crone’s limp form and retrieve my rapier and daggers. Wiping the black blood from my trembling hands, I take some deep breaths and try to steady my nerves. I then stagger back to join the circle of steel guarding Lieutenant Blodklutt, struggling to comprehend how I’ve somehow managed to survive so far. I thought that last witch was going to kill me. It’s fortunate that I tripped at the last moment. Otherwise I would be the one lying dead on the stone floor right now.
But this fight is far from over. I have to remain alert, prepared. Above all, I must not allow another witch to cast a spell on me. And yet I don’t think anything could prepare me for what happens next.
Countess Gretchen Kraus pushes through the fray, emerges through the mass of hags like a rose sprouting through a dung-heap. There’s a moment of silent anticipation. She stares at von Frankenthal, calls his name, forces him to return her stare. Then she whispers some obscure words, her voice like a breeze caressing silk curtains.
‘No, Christian! Look away!’ Armand’s voice is piercingly high, as if an ammunitions wagon has just run over his toes, and he races over to von Frankenthal in an attempt to divert his attention from the Blood Countess.
But it’s too late. For she has bewitched von Frankenthal with her eyes.
His body convulses, as if arsenic has been injected into his veins. He shakes as violently as a newborn calf on a freezing winter’s night. He tries to fight against the evil forcing its way into his body. But it’s too powerful, even for him.
It only takes a few seconds before he stops shaking. There’s a moment of silence. Then he throws Armand aside as if he were a rag doll, turns and sets his eyes on me.
God help me!
Von Frankenthal has been possessed – transformed into the ultimate pawn of evil. He stares at me with such unbridled hatred you’d think I’d put his family to the sword.
My rapier suddenly feels useless. I don’t even think a blunderbuss would be any help. What I need right now is an army of several thousand seasoned soldiers to protect me.
Why – out of all the people in the hall – did he have to target me? But it’s no use complaining about that right now. As von Frankenthal lumbers towards me, my mind screams one word to my legs – RUN!
Knowing that von Frankenthal is not a fast runner, I bolt from the room, hoping to outrun him. I never knew my legs could carry me so fast. It’s just as well, for von Frankenthal’s only a few yards behind me, a hulking mass of muscle and hatred, lumbering after me like the fall of Armageddon.
It doesn’t take me long to develop a lead on him. Reaching the stairwell, I head upwards, taking the steps five at a time, my breathing coming in laboured gasps. The muscles in my legs scream for rest. But I dare not slow down, for to do so will mean that I will lose my lead, allowing von Frankenthal to gradually catch up to me. And that will mean certain death.
Von Frankenthal’s the last person in the world I want to fight. Taking him on will be like trying to punch my way through a castle wall with my bare fists – an impossible task. And the situation’s twice as bad now that he’s been bewitched. I’ve heard that the possessed feel no pain. They continue fighting until they are literally cut to shreds. My only sure chance of survival is to kill the witch and break the spell. With von Frankenthal chasing after me, I don’t like my chances of taking out the Blood Countess. I can only hope that my companions will take care of her.
Until then, all I can do is try to stay alive – focus on keeping out of von Frankenthal’s reach. And so I scramble up the stairs, putting on a sudden spurt of energy, hoping to further increase my lead. I force my body to its limits and manage to gain a few extra yards on von Frankenthal, adding a brand to the fire of my hope. But fortune steps in and douses the fire, for the stairs come to an abrupt halt … in the form of a nail-studded door.
Damn!
I sprint up the stairs, only to find that the door is locked. I don’t think I’d be able to barge it down with a battering ram, let alone with my bare shoulders in the few seconds I have to spare. My gaze races around the stairwell, looking for any possible means of escape. There’s nothing but a window, set in the wall adjacent to the door, leading to nothing but blue sky and a stone gargoyle, over four yards long, attached to the keep wall some five yards off to the right of the window.
With von Frankenthal lumbering up the stairs, I sheathe my rapier and commit to what could prove to be the most disastrous decision of my life – I dive out the window.
May the Lord protect me!
I never realised I had climbed to the very top of the keep – six storeys high! I sail through the air with the grace of a cow shot out of a trebuchet, my arms flailing as though I’m having a seizure.
Why did I ever do this? I’m going to die!
But then my fingers find purchase on something solid, allowing me get a firm grip with my hands. The gargoyle! I reached it. I can’t believe my luck. I feel like screaming out in defiance of fate. Finally, something has gone my way.
As I pull myself up onto the gargoyle, I hear a bloodcurdling roar from behind. I snap my head around, just in time to see von Frankenthal reach the window and dive out after me.
My blood runs cold, practically turns to ice, and I stare at von Frankenthal in shock. His massive form flies towards me, his eyes locked on mine the entire time, transfixing me with their burning hatred.
Then I come to my senses. Move, move
, move! I scramble atop the gargoyle. But there’s no time to brace myself for the impact. I have barely got my legs lifted to safety before von Frankenthal crashes into the structure.
WHOOMPH! He hits the gargoyle chest first, with the force of a galleon ramming into a wharf. There’s a terrible retching sound as the wind explodes from his lungs. The rapier flies from his hand. The gargoyle reverberates with the force of the impact, but, fortunately, it doesn’t break free from the wall.
With von Frankenthal momentarily winded, wrapped around the gargoyle, struggling to regain his breath, I seize the advantage. My first instinct is to kick him in the face – hard – with the heel of my boot. If I can force him to lose his grip, he will fall to the cobblestones below.
But I can’t bring myself to do it. Not to one of my companions, even if he has been bewitched. I will only fight him as a last resort. And I wouldn’t like my chances of surviving that encounter. He’d swat me aside, right before crushing my skull with his bare hands.
I shuffle back along the gargoyle, moving out of von Frankenthal’s reach. I have to watch my balance, though. The gargoyle’s no wider than two feet. There’s little margin for error here. One false step and it’s a hundred-foot drop to the courtyard for me.
I reach the wall of the keep, brace my back against it, and search for a means of escape. There’s nowhere left to run. There’s nothing beneath me but sheer wall. While there are gargoyles off to the left and right, they’re over ten yards away. I’d never be able to reach them.
My only chance of flight lies in scaling the keep wall, all ten feet of it. Then I can reach the crenellated battlement atop the keep. But I don’t like my chance of doing that, not unless I can spring wings like Icarus.
Cornered, my hand flies instinctively to my rapier. I’m going to have to face von Frankenthal, and even though he’s lost his blade, I’m sure I’ll last no longer than a few seconds against him.
Trying not to panic, I take some deep breaths. I have to remain calm, try to keep my wits about me.
Just as I am starting to lose all hope, I see it: a fissure in the wall, directly in front of me, at a height of about four feet. It’s only two inches wide and half a finger’s-breadth thick – nothing more than an eye-slit in the stone. But it is large enough to wedge a dagger into, enabling me to create a foothold to scale the wall.
The next instant, I have a dagger in my hand and wedge it into the fissure. I stop, my heart missing a beat, for I sense a shadow looming behind me.
I spin around to find that von Frankenthal has regained his breath, pulled himself atop the gargoyle, and is now coming towards me. Fortunately, he’s struggling to keep his balance, as nimble as a one-legged drunkard teetering atop a rolling wine barrel. He’s inching closer nonetheless, his eyes still locked on mine.
Fighting back a rising wave of panic and fear, I focus on the wall. Hoisting a foot onto the dagger, I test my weight. Miraculously, it holds firm. With not a second to lose, I put my entire weight on it, plant my hands against the wall to stabilise myself, and push off, reaching for the top of the wall.
I reach it and start pulling myself up, dragging my torso over the wall. A second later and only my legs are left, dangling like bait before a shark. I’m almost there. I’m sure I’m going to make it. But the smile of victory disappears from my lips as a grip like a snapping bear-trap closes on my left ankle.
Crying out in frustration, I snap my head around to stare down at von Frankenthal. He hasn’t even stepped up onto my dagger. He’s simply reached up and grabbed hold of me.
I try to kick free, but it’s no use. Just as I think things can’t get any worse, von Frankenthal gives a tremendous yank on my leg and tries to pull me down towards him.
NO!
Gritting my teeth, I cling to the wall. The muscles in my arms practically burst through my shirt with the effort. I feel like a rowboat facing an impossible struggle against the tremendous power of the Kraken. I’m almost torn from the wall. It’s nothing short of a miracle my foot isn’t dislocated. But somehow I manage to hold on.
After what seems to be an eternity, von Frankenthal stops pulling. There’s a reprieve as he readjusts his grip, prepares for a final assault on my leg; an assault that will rip me from the wall.
In desperation, I heave with all my strength. Heave until my face turns purple. Heave until the blood hammers in my temple. Heave until I fear my leg is about to snap off. Heave until … my leg slips free from the boot!
For a split second, time freezes. There’s a look of utter disbelief on von Frankenthal’s face. And then he topples backwards, staring at the boot in his hand.
Then time rushes back in, and I shoot free, propelled over the battlement, to lay sprawled on a parapet walk that runs around the inner perimeter of the roof. Without even bothering to see what has become of von Frankenthal, I scramble to my feet. Then I’m off.
I’m so exhausted it’s a miracle I can still move. I’ve been pushed beyond my physical limits. Instinct alone propels me forward, cracking its whip across my back, squeezing the final drops of blood from my stamina stone.
It feels as though I’m in a dream, being chased by some fiendish horror. But as much as I will my legs to move, they’re as responsive as wooden stumps. My wounded shoulder’s screaming in pain. Each laboured breath’s going down as easily as a mouthful of nails, and my tongue’s sloshing about my mouth like a mop in a bucket. And yet the chase continues.
As far as I know, von Frankenthal might have stumbled off the gargoyle and plummeted to his death. He might be splattered across the courtyard floor by now. Though I don’t know that for certain. It’s quite possible he’s managed to regain his footing on the gargoyle, tossed aside my boot, and is preparing to scale the wall and give chase. Meaning I’ve only got a few seconds before his head rears over the battlement wall. Then the chase will begin all over again.
That’s why I need to find a way off the roof – to disappear before von Frankenthal has a chance to spot me. If I can find a safe place to hide, then I can simply wait for one of my companions to kill the Countess; to remove the curse she placed upon von Frankenthal.
The parapet walk runs around the perimeter of the keep. On the inner side of the parapet – at a drop of over ten feet – lies a wooden roof. Its beams are so termite-infested that simply to breathe upon them would send them crumbling to dust. So I’m confined to the parapet walk.
I race around to the opposite side of the roof, searching for a means of escape. Finding none, I’m about to cry out in frustration when I see a trapdoor, some thirty yards off to my right, but with a mangonel parked on top of it.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I stagger over to the mangonel. Even though it’s only a miniature catapult, it’s over ten feet tall and must weigh over a tonne. This thing was built to last. It must be several hundred years old, but it looks as if it were built only yesterday.
There’s no way I can access the trapdoor, as one of the mangonel’s legs is parked directly on top of it. Unless I can harness the strength of an elephant, I severely doubt my chances of budging the mangonel even an inch.
And as if things cannot get any worse, it’s then that I hear the roar – a roar that freezes my blood, inhuman in its bestial ferocity. I turn around, just in time to see von Frankenthal drag himself over the battlement.
Our eyes lock. There’s a moment of silence as we stare at one another, waiting to see who will make the first move. It’s not as if I’m going to be able to go far, though. All I’ll be able to do is skirt around the parapet, ensuring I keep well away from von Frankenthal. It will then just come down to a question of endurance, to who tires first.
Von Frankenthal leaps from the battlement. He lands on the parapet on all fours, like some demonic panther. Then he springs to his feet and starts sprinting across the parapet.
And I’m off the next instant, moving in the opposite direction, charging around the mangonel. I’ve only taken three steps before I come to a sudden halt a
nd stare down at the ground – at the coil of rope I have trodden upon. I can’t believe I didn’t spot it earlier. I must have been so preoccupied with the trapdoor that I failed to see it.
The coil of rope must be over thirty yards in length. It’s frayed in parts, but not beyond use. It looks as though it still has some strength in it. Enough strength, I hope, to support my weight.
It’s the lifeline I need, the spark of hope that ignites the powder keg of my resolve. It brings an idea barging into my head that could see me escape from the roof.
But do I have time? Well, I’m not going to achieve anything just standing here procrastinating. It’s time to move as if my life depends upon it, for von Frankenthal is only thirty yards away now, coming after me like Doomsday.
Without a second to spare, I snatch up the rope and loop it through one of the mangonel’s legs. Having wrapped the ends of the rope around my hands, I then race forward, say a hasty prayer … and leap over the battlement.
I plummet down the side of the keep, the wind screaming in my ears and the stone wall rushing past me. Barely a second passes before – TWANG – there’s a tremendous jolt as the rope runs its course. The rope bites into my flesh, slamming me into the wall of the keep. But I somehow manage to maintain my hold. I’ve fallen over a dozen yards. It’s not exactly as far as I had hoped I would drop. By pure luck I’ve fallen far enough to bring me level with a window. It’s no more than three yards off to my left.
Ignoring the pain in my hands, I plant my legs firmly against the wall. Grasping both lengths of rope in my right hand, I start to pull myself across to the left, reaching for the window. I have barely moved, however, when there’s a powerful yank on the rope. My feet slip, and I’m dragged a good two yards up the wall.
I stare up in terror at von Frankenthal. He’s straddling the battlements, pulling the rope, the muscles cording in his arms as he hoists me up.
