by Stuart Daly
Crying out in despair, I reach desperately across to the window, my fingers scrambling across the wall. But it’s no use. It’s beyond my reach.
Then there’s another tug on the rope, lifting me higher, dragging me towards the battlements – taking me further away from the window; away from my only means of escape.
Realising I’ve only got one last hope, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I’m about to do. I then push off from the wall, swing out to the left, try to bring myself in line with the window … and let go of the rope.
I can’t believe I’m doing this! This is arguably the most dangerous thing I’ve ever attempted in my entire life.
I’m falling fast. And I only get one shot at this. If I miss the window it’s the courtyard floor for me. Certain death.
The wall flies past me in a blur of stone. Then a black hole appears – the window! I snap my hands out at just the right moment, catching hold of the window ledge, drawing my body in hard against the wall. The wind explodes from my chest, and the pain in my left shoulder is unbearable. But I manage to cling on.
I hang there for a moment, catching my breath, waiting for the pain to subside, amazed that I’m still alive. I’ve gambled with death too many times today. From here on, there’s no more leaping out of windows, or jumping over castle walls, or letting go of a rope in the vain hope of catching hold of a window ledge. It’s solid ground for me for the rest of my life.
But I’m not safe yet. Not until I climb through the window and get back inside the keep. As I start to pull myself up I become aware of movement over to my right.
I snap my head around to look at the rope. It’s moving, jostling about as von Frankenthal starts to climb down the wall. He’s lowering himself down the rope, coming after me.
No! I refuse to be caught. Not after all of this. And so, driven by fear alone, I scramble up the wall and haul myself up onto the window ledge. Propping myself up on my elbows, I spare a second to stare into the room only to recoil in shock so that I nearly topple out of the window. For right in front of me is a witch whose blade-like fingernails are set to sink into my skin.
This cannot be happening! Everywhere I turn there’s an obstacle in my way. But complaining about it isn’t going to change the situation, and it certainly isn’t going to make this witch disappear.
I’m not even free from von Frankenthal yet, and now I have this new terror – with teeth-like lumps of charcoal and a face riddled with scars and warts – to deal with. I’m hardly in any position to defend myself. I haven’t even dragged my feet up yet. I fear I might fall to my death if I remove one of my hands from the ledge. But I don’t have much of an option, for the crone’s hands shoot out and start to claw at my face, trying to push me out the window.
Forced to defend myself, I brace my right elbow into the corner of the ledge, wedging myself in like a tick. I then try to fend off the attack with my left hand. But the witch is unrelenting, tearing at my face with savage fury.
I catch movement behind the witch, and pray that it isn’t more crones. Stranded in the window, I won’t stand a chance at fighting them off. I might as well let go right now, let myself fall to my death. At least then I won’t have to endure the torture of having my face shredded.
All of a sudden I hear a voice, barking commands; a voice I would recognise anywhere, as foppish as a perfumed handkerchief. And it’s coming from within the room.
Armand!
I try to crane my head around the witch to catch a glimpse of what lies in the shadows beyond, and recognise the room instantly. It’s the banquet hall. And there’s Armand, his sabres a blur of steel, taking on over a dozen witches. He’s trying to carve his way through them to get to the Blood Countess, whose malicious laughter resonates over the sounds of combat, mocking the Hexenjäger. Behind him, Klaus and Bethlen are guarding Lieutenant Blodklutt, cutting down anything that comes near them. Klaus is still unscathed. There’s not even a bead of sweat on his forehead. Bethlen, on the other hand, is covered in cuts and blood, his clothing shredded.
And then there’s Blodklutt, his head still buried in the Malleus Maleficarum, weaving his spell. He’s chanting phrases maniacally, his face drained of all its colour. Whatever he’s saying, it’s starting to work. Strands of blue mist – like tentacles – are extending from the book, reaching into the furthest recesses of the room, twisting around the crones. I’m not sure what these ropes of mist will do, but the witches are terrified of them, screaming and fleeing in terror whenever they come near them.
My resolve bolstered by the fact that my companions are only yards away, I grab the witch by the neck. My fingers bite deep into her skin in an attempt to squeeze the life from her. But she wrestles free and comes at me with a fury that almost knocks me out the window, her fingernails slashing through my clothing and skin like butcher’s knives. Feeling myself slip, I give a desperate cry for help. Through the witch’s slashing claws, I see Armand snap around.
‘Jakob! Hold on. I’m coming,’ he cries, and tears forward, hacking his way through the crones, trying desperately to reach me.
He’s not going to make it in time; I can no longer hold out against the witch. And so, in a last-ditch effort to prevent myself from falling, I reach out and grab her by the hair. She gives a horrific scream and tries to brace herself. But she cannot support my weight, and with a terrified cry caught in my throat, we both topple out the window.
No sooner have I slid out the window than an iron-like grip grabs me by the collar. I’m left dangling in mid-air, watching the hag – whom I release – plummet to her death. I can’t drag my eyes away from her as she falls screaming down the side of the keep, her arms flailing wildly. Until there’s a sickening crunch. Then silence.
I finally look away from the mangled heap, a sickness welling in my stomach. That was meant to be me. But I’m not yet out of harm’s reach. On the contrary, harm has got me well and truly within its grasp. I don’t even have to twist around to know that I’ve been caught by von Frankenthal.
He’s climbed down the wall, reached out and caught me just in time.
I turn my head around to look at his face – and wish instantly that he had let me join the witch. Von Frankenthal’s eyes glisten with the sadistic glee of an executioner who’s been given free rein in a torture chamber. His powerful grip is like a hangman’s noose and my breath comes out in constricted gasps.
I manage to wriggle my legs over to the window ledge and find purchase, releasing the pressure around my neck. I take in a few hasty gulps of air, muster what’s left of my strength, and attempt to wrestle free.
Von Frankenthal watches me with morbid fascination, his iron-like grip impossible to break free of. Accepting the hopelessness of my situation, I stare in desperation through the window, searching for Armand – my last hope. But he’s still a good six yards away from me, and I don’t think he’ll get any closer. Witches are all over him like lice on a beggar.
Then I see the Blood Countess, her back towards me, issuing commands to her coven. Her high-pitched cackle resonates through the hall as she enjoys the hold her witches have over our men. She’s so caught up in her reverie that she’s unaware of my presence.
I have an uninterrupted line of sight to her. It would make for a perfect shot. I would be able to kill her and break the spell she cast upon von Frankenthal, but I still haven’t had a chance to reload my pistols. And with von Frankenthal grabbing my neck, I can’t even reach down to draw the remaining dagger from my boot. All I have is my rapier and … my carbine! I had completely forgotten about it! It is slung over my shoulder, primed and readied, left in reserve for a critical moment such as this.
With adrenalin pumping through my veins, I struggle to reach for the weapon behind my back. It takes a few tries, but once I have it I draw forth the firearm and take aim at the Countess. Seeing me retrieve my weapon, von Frankenthal squeezes harder, beads of sweat forming at his forehead. I can feel my windpipe contract, and my vision starts t
o blur. It will take a miracle to get this right. I pray to God I don’t miss.
BLAM!
There’s a powdered flash and the carbine recoils, slamming back into my shoulder, forcing me to cry out and drop the firearm. Just as the smoke starts to clear, I see the impossible happen: the Countess spins on her heel, stares at me through death-glazed eyes, then drops to the floor, black blood oozing from the hole in her head.
The instant the Countess slumps to the ground the grip around my neck relaxes, and I turn around and look up at von Frankenthal, his features as hard as granite. Thankfully, the hazy blankness is gone from his eyes, the telltale sign that he had been under the Countess’s spell.
His grip weakening on the rope, he drops me through the window and climbs in after me. He then plants his massive hands on my shoulders, and lowers his head to be level with mine.
‘I am in your debt, young Jakob,’ von Frankenthal says, his usually stern voice soft with gratitude. ‘The Blood Countess made me her puppet, and I feared I was going to slay you. I dread to think what other acts of evil she would have made me perform. But you slew the witch, and, in doing so, broke her spell and saved my life.’
I smile hesitantly in return, finding it hard to look into his eyes. ‘I thought you were going to kill me,’ I say, and wipe a trembling hand across my brow.
‘I’m sorry,’ von Frankenthal continues. ‘I had no control over my actions. To be possessed by black magic and to be made a pawn of evil is to face a fate worse than death itself. All I could hope was that you would keep running, and that one of our companions would be able to slay the witch. But it was you who slew the Countess. For that, my young friend, I am eternally grateful. You have more than proven your worth. And if, by my life or death, I can repay you, than I shall. That is my solemn pledge.’
I don’t think I’ve ever been more thankful in my life. Having von Frankenthal hunt me was worse than facing all of Hell’s minions. It seems I have finally taken my first step in forging a friendship with the witch hunter. Armand had been correct in his assessment that the way to earn von Frankenthal’s respect was to display courage. I just never thought that my first step would have to be taken under such extreme circumstances.
With the Blood Countess dead, and von Frankenthal free from her spell, we should be able to survive this nightmare. But then movement catches my eye, and I look beyond von Frankenthal. The thought of surviving Schloss Kriegsberg suddenly vanishes, and I begin to fear that the cold stone walls of the keep will serve as my tomb.
‘Look out!’ I say, feeling the nerves tighten in my stomach. ‘We aren’t out of this just yet.’
Von Frankenthal snaps his head around to see that every witch that is not actively engaged in combat with the remaining members of our company – and there are over a dozen of them – have fixed their eyes on me!
‘I fear they wish to avenge the death of their mistress,’ von Frankenthal says, arming himself with the leg of a broken chair. He shifts me away from the window and positions himself protectively in front of me. ‘But all they’ll find here is death. Stay behind me, young Jakob. Let me repay the debt I owe you.’
‘There are too many of them!’ I breathe and, drawing my rapier and dagger, prepare myself for what I’m sure will be our last stand.
This entire day has been one never-ending process of jumping out of frying pans into fires. But this time I fear I may have jumped straight into Hell’s inferno. Surrounded, and pinned against the wall, there’s no hope of flight. And I’m so tired I can barely muster the strength to raise my blade, let alone take on over a dozen crones.
We manage to shuffle further away from the window, and I brace my back against the wall. Then the witches tear into us like a thousand carving knives.
Von Frankenthal gives a mighty roar and lunges forward, intercepting the brunt of the witches’ assault. Swinging wildly with his yard of wood, his lips turned back in a fit of rage, he shatters the jaw of one hag. No sooner has that witch toppled screaming to the floor than another leaps forward. Von Frankenthal lashes out again, a vicious punch turning the hag’s face into a bloodied mess. Then more witches tear into him, their rage seemingly stoked by the fires of Hell, and it’s only a matter of time before von Frankenthal is knocked back by the fury of their assault. Losing his footing, he’s slammed back against the wall.
Without a moment’s hesitation I dive into the fray, placing myself between von Frankenthal and the crones. It’s almost as if I’m being driven by some spirit that has taken control of my body, forcing me to put aside my fear, and to pay scant regard for my own safety. I slash wildly at the first hag to emerge from the screaming mass, leaving her writhing on the floor, clutching at the gaping wound in her neck. I follow up that attack with a dagger thrust into the chest of the next hag to come forward. As she drops screaming to the ground, I lunge with my rapier at another crone’s head. But she weaves past my blade, gets through my guard, and launches at my face.
Giving an involuntary cry of alarm, I stagger back and try to ward the crone away. But she’s come so close that my rapier is ineffective. And so – just as she grabs me by the shoulders and opens her maw in preparation to rip into my neck – I thrust upwards with my dagger, driving it deep under her chin.
Blood, thick and warm, spills all over my hand. But the witch doesn’t drop dead. To my horror, she pushes me over to the window, forces back my head, exposing the soft flesh of my neck, and has a second attempt at trying to tear into me.
‘Von Frankenthal!’ I cry out in anguish, hoping he can come to my rescue.
Trying desperately to keep the witch at bay, I manage to see von Frankenthal in the corner of my eye. At that instant, a terrible awareness of my impending death dashes any hope of surviving this encounter. For von Frankenthal has been dragged to the floor, smothered in witches, like ravens squabbling over carrion. There are so many, in fact, that I can barely see him.
Somewhere off to my right I can hear Armand, battling his way through the crones, calling out my name. But I fear that even he won’t make it to me in time, as he too is facing some half a dozen witches. There’s no sign of Klaus or Bethlen coming to save me either.
Once again, I’m left to fend for myself. And so I do all that I really can in this situation: I drive my dagger deeper into the crone’s chin and try to push her away. Repulsed, I try to twist my head away, but she’s too strong. At the very moment that her slavering mouth reaches my neck, and she bares her rotten teeth in preparation to sink into my flesh, a rifle report cracks over the sounds of combat.
WHAT!?
The witch snaps back violently, a cloud of pink mist bursting from the rear of her head. Blood gushes from the gunshot wound in her forehead and her crazed eyes roll back.
I push her aside and spare a stunned glance over my shoulder, out the window – to the gunpowder smoke trailing from the window in the tower rising from the opposite battlement. The tower to which Robert Monro had been assigned.
The Scot! Assigned to sniper duty by Captain Faust. Ordered to watch over us with his high-powered rifle. I had completely forgotten about him.
Why didn’t he come to my rescue before? Didn’t he see me being attacked by the other witch earlier? Though, I shouldn’t complain. He did save my life just now and that’s something to be grateful for.
I wave over to Robert to show my gratitude, and notice that he seems to be distracted by something. He keeps looking over his shoulder, scanning the southern slope of Brocken Mountain, almost as if he’s monitoring someone’s approach.
But then a commanding voice orders the witches to withdraw, bringing my attention back to the room, where a shadowy figure has entered from the adjoining stairwell. The witches fall back from the fray, their evil cackles muted as they gaze in fear at the stranger striding into the room – a man clad in the garb of a witch hunter. Like no other I’ve seen before.
Thank God!
I have no idea as to who this man is, but I feel like running over and k
issing his feet. He could not have arrived at a more crucial time.
Although it’s obvious that this man is a witch hunter, his clothing reveals that he is not part of our order. He is decked out in the full panoply of God’s holy arsenal. A rapier jostles by his side, and a pair of long-barrelled duelling pistols are tucked into his belt. What appears to be a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum hangs in a leather case slung over his shoulder. Crucifixes are tattooed on every part of his exposed flesh. His features are hidden in shadow beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and he is framed by a cloak as black as sin. He looks like the ultimate warrior of Christ, guaranteed to send witches running for their lives with one mere glance.
I stagger away from the window, help von Frankenthal to his feet, and then move over to join Armand. ‘The reinforcements have arrived,’ I say, elated. ‘We’ve made it.’
‘I wouldn’t be celebrating just yet,’ Armand whispers, eyeing the stranger warily. ‘This smells of witchery.’
‘What?’
‘Something’s not right here. Look at his eyes.’
I pry deep into the shadows beneath the witch hunter’s hat, but I can’t see anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps the fatigue of battle has started to cloud Armand’s judgement and made him start to see things. I’m about to tell Armand that he must be mistaken, but then the witch hunter cranes his head around the hall, allowing light to spill under his hat, and I finally catch a glimpse of his eyes. At that very moment, my heart misses a beat, for his eyes are white!
It’s only now I also notice that the witches haven’t fallen back in fear of the stranger, but stepped back in reverence.
My hope sinks like an anchor. What new peril is this? The Devil masquerading as a witch hunter?
The stranger moves into the centre of the hall, and stops beside the body of the Countess. He kneels down, caresses her forehead, then embraces her still form. An eternity seems to pass before he rises again. He looks around the room, his eyes blazing with rage, hunting for the one responsible.
