The Witch Hunter Chronicles 1

by Stuart Daly

  ‘Who did this?’ he demands, his voice as ominous as the gates of Hell being cracked open.

  In response, the witches turn and point at me. Right now would be a good moment for the earth to open up and swallow me whole. But there’s nowhere left to run. And when the witch hunter sets his deathly stare upon me, it takes every ounce of my willpower not to fall trembling to my knees.

  ‘I will make you feel such pain you will curse the day you were born!’ the witch hunter snarls. ‘I curse you and your family. You shall pay for this.’

  Armand steps forward, placing himself between me and the stranger. He casts an uneasy glance over at Blodklutt, as if assessing how long he’ll have to stall events before the Lieutenant’s incantation is complete. And by the looks of it, it won’t be long now. Blodklutt is in a trance-like state, chanting verses from the Malleus Maleficarum, deep within his spell. Brought to life by the magic of the Hammer of the Witches, the blue tentacles of mist are weaving around the room, and starting to lash out at the witches like striking snakes. Keeping their distance, the witches retreat to the furthest corners of the room, from where they scream at us with unbridled hatred.

  ‘You’ll need to get past me first,’ Armand says, turning his attention back to the stranger. ‘So the Countess took you as her groom, Heinrich von Dornheim.’ He pauses, reading the flash of surprise in the former witch hunter’s eyes. ‘Don’t look so surprised that I know your identity. Who else has their entire body tattooed with crucifixes? It must be some sort of family obsession; your father – the late Witch Bishop of Bamberg – couldn’t help but adorn his witches’ torture chamber with biblical texts. And so, naturally, you took it one step further.’

  My eyes flash with recognition as I recall what Klaus had told me about the company of witch hunters that had entered these mountains last year. They had been sent by the Church to hunt and slay a coven of witches that had taken residence in an abandoned castle. And they had been led by Heinrich von Dornheim, the son of Johann Georg Fuchs von Dornheim, the Witch Bishop of Bamberg – one of the most infamous witch hunters to have ever lived. Heading a special witch-hunting bureaucracy, the Witch Commission, Fuchs von Dornheim had conducted a reign of terror throughout the Franconian Bishopric of Bamberg. In a five-year period, between 1626 and 1630, over six hundred people had been persecuted, tortured in Fuchs von Dornheim’s special witch-prison, the Drudenhaus, and sentenced to death by being burned alive. But Fuchs von Dornheim had made the fatal error of targeting people in positions of power, and they, in turn, complained to the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor. Held accountable for his actions, Fuchs von Dornheim fled Bamberg, and died in exile some years later. And so ended the reign of one of Franconia’s most fanatical and brutal witch hunters.

  ‘At first I was surprised to see you – alive, that is,’ Armand continues. ‘But now it’s all starting to make sense. The famous witch hunter, Heinrich von Dornheim, is sent into the Harz Mountains to kill Countess Gretchen Kraus. Instead he is so enchanted by her beauty that he promises her not only his heart but also his immortal soul, forsaking all that is sacred, to enter an unholy union with one of the Devil’s concubines. But you need not fear about losing your beloved Countess, for you will shortly join her. That, I promise you.’

  No sooner has Armand finished his threat, however, than the hall erupts in chaos. Von Dornheim raises a hand and mutters something. It sounds as if he’s speaking in tongues. The next instant, rippling veins of black lightning shoot forth from his fingertips. They smash into Armand and lift him off his feet, throwing him back onto me.

  At the very same instant that Armand and I hit the floor, Lieutenant Blodklutt completes his incantation. The blue tentacles of mist extending from the Malleus Maleficarum lash out at the witches with incredible speed, latch around them, then drag them, kicking and screaming, to the centre of the hall, where the Malleus Maleficarum awaits. The tentacles retract into the book, dragging the hags down to their doom. It only takes a few seconds, then it’s all over.

  I’m left gaping, it all happened so fast. Blodklutt, having finished his incantation, collapses on the floor, clearly exhausted from the gruelling ordeal.

  I stagger to my feet and look around the silent hall, feeling like the survivor of some cataclysmic event. All the witches have been dragged into the Malleus Maleficarum, and there’s no sign of von Dornheim. In all of the screaming and confusion I lost sight of him. I can only assume that he, too, was caught by the Lieutenant’s spell and destroyed.

  Von Frankenthal is a few yards off to my left, his clothing shredded and stained in blood. His hands are planted on his knees, and he’s sucking in air. Klaus, who is unscathed, is standing with Bethlen near Blodklutt, where they had maintained a ring of steel around him throughout the entire fight. And then there’s Armand, lying on the ground near my feet. He’s as charred as a singed log, his hair standing on end, wafts of smoke rising from his clothes. As torn and battered as he is, it hasn’t dampened his spirit.

  ‘Now that wasn’t too difficult, was it?’ he says, looking up at me, trying to maintain a brave facade, but flinching in pain against his wounds. ‘Just an average day when you join the Hexenjäger.’

  I offer a helping hand and pull him to his feet. ‘I can’t believe we’re still alive,’ I say, shaking my head.

  With the witches, the Blood Countess and von Dornheim finally killed, and the rush of combat subsiding, I’m surprised to find that I’m not assailed by the same sensation of nausea I had experienced back in the courtyard. Perhaps the spirit of a great witch hunter lies within me after all. But I know it’s going to take a long time before I become accustomed to combat and the sight of death for, try as I may, I cannot stop my hands from trembling. Embarrassed by the involuntary shaking, I sheathe my rapier and conceal my hands within the folds of my cloak.

  ‘We’re only alive because of your efforts,’ von Frankenthal says, coming over and giving me an encouraging pat on the back. ‘Had you not slain the Countess, I fear we would have perished in this hall. You have the courage of a man twice your age, young Jakob. We’re just lucky that you were selected to come on this mission.’

  ‘Christian is correct,’ Armand adds, sheathing his sabres. ‘We owe our lives to you. For an initiate, untrained in the art of fighting witches and dark magic, you have performed deeds today that will be talked about for years to come. As I told you before, I believe you have found your calling.’

  I smile warmly in return and discover, much to my surprise, that their words of encouragement have steadied my hands. My efforts today have not gone unrewarded, and I have now forged two friendships within the Hexenjäger. I think it will be a long time before I hear any favourable words from Bethlen. He’s pulled up a seat on the opposite side of the central table, and is tending to a deep gash on his right thigh. I can see that he is watching me through the corner of his eye, a brooding scowl upon his face, obviously resentful of the praise I have received. Again, I find myself regretting the lies I told in order to be admitted into the Hexenjäger. If I could tell him the truth about my past, I’m sure it would bridge the gap between us; let him know that, had I not had the fortune of being adopted by a caring uncle, I would have become a street urchin. But Bethlen’s resentment towards me is so great that, rather than drawing us closer, he would use this information to get me expelled from the order. Of that, I have no doubt. And so I must keep the truth of my letter of introduction carefully guarded, and try to find some other means of bridging the gap between us. I just don’t know what else I can do. He’s even resentful of the fact that I saved his life.

  The throbbing pain in my shoulder draws me from my thoughts. Blood has seeped through the bandage, and I’m tearing a fresh replacement from my shredded tabard when my attention is drawn to Klaus. He’s moved over to stand near the hearth, and is keeping a careful eye on us as he reloads his pistol. A cold shudder runs the length of my spine, as I only now remember that he is our enemy, forced into an alliance of convenience
in order to defeat the Countess. Now that the Countess and her coven have been eliminated, it will only be a matter of time before we return to where we left off. And by the way in which Klaus is readying his weapons, he intends to catch us off-guard.

  I shoot an anxious look at my companions, but they seem to have completely forgotten about the threat posed by Klaus. Rather than reloading their pistols and preparing for further combat, they are recovering from the fight with the coven, tending to their wounds and trying to regain their strength.

  I’m about to call out to them, to draw their attention to Klaus, when I hear an ominous voice coming from the shadowed doorway of the stairwell. As one, we turn and stare at the figure emerging from the darkness. No – it cannot be! Heinrich von Dornheim’s piercing white eyes are ablaze with a newfound fury.

  Concealed within the folds of his cloak, von Dornheim is reading from the leather-bound volume previously slung over his shoulder – a volume, which I only now realise is not a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum, but a grimoire.

  Although I don’t know much about dark magic, I overheard a conversation between two Hexenjäger in the communal eating hall during my first night at Burg Grimmheim. Their topic of conversation had been grimoires – Satan’s unholy texts. From what I had heard, grimoires are evil tomes used by only the most powerful of witches and warlocks. They contain spells and instructions – usually scrawled in blood – for invoking demons. The most powerful known to exist are the Clavis Salomonis and the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum.

  I’m not sure which grimoire von Dornheim is holding, but it must be powerful in order to have protected him from the Malleus Maleficarum. By the way he’s reading from its pages, he intends to cast some diabolical spell upon us.

  Our injuries and exhaustion suddenly forgotten, we gather in the centre of the hall. There’s a hiss of steel as blades, still slick with blood, are drawn. Blodklutt clambers to his feet, his features strained with exhaustion. But his eyes are alert, attuned to the severity of our situation, and he readies his rapier and calls for us to gather near him.

  ‘Well, we’re not out of this yet,’ Armand says, moving to the front of our party, his drawn sabres being the first line of defence against von Dornheim.

  ‘Aye, it seems we have to face yet another foe,’ Blodklutt says, and returns the Malleus Maleficarum to the protective leather case hanging from his belt. ‘This time we won’t be able to rely upon the Malleus Maleficarum to protect us. I’m exhausted. It will be some time before I can summon the strength to use its magic again. We’ll have to rely upon our blades to fight our way out of this situation.’

  ‘Then so be it,’ von Frankenthal snarls, his brooding eyes locked on von Dornheim. ‘Let’s rush the witch hunter – slay him before he completes his spell. What say you, Armand and –’

  He lets his sentence hang unfinished when he looks across at Klaus, only now remembering that he is in fact the Holy Spirit, our sworn enemy.

  In return, Klaus curses and slashes his rapier through the air in frustration. ‘So we are forced to join forces again,’ he says, spitting the words with distaste.

  ‘We’ll deal with the witch hunter first,’ Blodklutt says. ‘Agreed? Then you and I will settle our own score.’

  Klaus stares at the Lieutenant with eyes that could kill. Anxious seconds pass before he finally nods and smiles, as if savouring taking the Lieutenant’s life.

  ‘We have a deal, Papist,’ he snarls. ‘I will take your life first. Then I’ll deal with the others.’

  ‘So be it,’ Blodklutt says, drawing his remaining pistol, and cocking back the firing pin. ‘But Christian is correct. We have to get that book from von Dornheim. Either that, or kill him. He’ll summon one of Hell’s lieutenants if we’re not careful.’

  ‘And if that happens, we might as well start getting our coffins sized,’ Armand adds grimly.

  Unsettled by the fact that someone as skilled with a blade as Armand has doubts, I say a hasty prayer and cross myself. I then set my eyes upon von Dornheim, wipe the perspiration from my palms, and readjust the grip on my rapier.

  Just as we’re about to rush von Dornheim, he finishes reading from the grimoire, looks up and smiles evilly.

  I snap my head around the hall, half expecting a demon to emerge from a shadowed corner. And, as if on cue, I see it.

  A demon!

  It appears out of nowhere, over by the hearth. It is disoriented, thank God, struggling to comprehend its surroundings, obviously suffering from some form of summoning sickness.

  The only demons I have seen up until this moment have been in books with pictures depicting Hell. They have been archetypal demons, with horns and pitchforks, which they have used to prod sinners as they are herded across brimstone landscapes. But nothing could prepare me for an encounter with a real demon.

  It’s naked, and stands over six feet tall. It has cloven feet, is rippling with muscle, and flames lick across its charcoal-coloured skin. A repugnant smell – a cross between a charnel house and sulphur – accompanies its presence, and its forked tail, over a dozen yards long, slashes through the air like a fiery whip. Its flat, flared nostrils snort the air with a squelching sound, like a blade being wrenched from the chest of an impaled foe.

  Stricken with terror, I slump to my knees. Why should we even bother trying to fight this nightmare? The witches were hard enough. We won’t stand a chance against this beast.

  ‘Not now,’ Blodklutt says, reaching down and hauling me to my feet. ‘Do not give in to despair. There is hope yet. It will require all of our blades to slay the demon – even yours.’

  The Lieutenant’s words do little to inspire hope, for I fear the demon will massacre us. What chance do we possibly have in fighting such a monstrosity? The involuntary shaking starts in my hands. I’m overcome by such despair that my throat constricts, and I find it difficult to breathe.

  ‘It can be killed,’ Blodklutt continues. ‘Our weapons can harm it on hallowed ground, and I saw an old chapel in the main courtyard. We lure it there, and we can kill it.’

  A spark of hope. Yet it’s so dim and feeble that the shadow of evil threatens to extinguish it even before it can develop into a flame. Though it is a spark, nonetheless, and it manages to drag me out of my despair; makes me grip my rapier with renewed determination, driven by the slim chance of survival.

  But any hope of making it to the chapel in time is stopped by Heinrich von Dornheim. He’s standing in the doorway, his rapier drawn in preparation for combat. His intention is obvious: to keep us penned in whilst the demon tears us to shreds.

  ‘He’s cut off our only means of escape!’ I cry, and point towards the former witch hunter with my rapier.

  The words have barely left my mouth before Blodklutt steps forward. Without a moment’s hesitation, he takes aim with his pistol – and before von Dornheim has time to respond – fires.

  Von Dornheim’s head jolts back, and the hat is torn from his head. For a moment he stands there, and I worry that the Lieutenant’s shot has missed its mark, only grazed the witch hunter’s head. But then he takes a few tottering steps on buckling legs, his arms flailing by his sides, before he slumps to the ground, dead, blood oozing from the gaping hole in his head.

  It all happens within a split second, so fast that the sneer is still on the witch hunter’s lips.

  ‘There – dealt with,’ Blodklutt says nonchalantly, as if killing von Dornheim was no more of a challenge than blowing his nose. He returns the pistol to his belt and draws his rapier. ‘Now’s our chance – before the demon comes to its senses. Run!’

  I will my legs to move, but they are unresponsive. I’m still struggling to come to terms with what I just witnessed. Heinrich von Dornheim – who looked as if he could single-handedly wage war against Heaven – was just killed by a single pistol shot to the head! The Lieutenant made it look so easy.

  ‘Jakob! Move!’ Blodklutt barks, and shoves me in the back, propelling me forward.

  The urgency in
his voice draws me back to my senses, and I take a few involuntary steps forward before the severity of our situation kicks in. And then I start to sprint from the hall as if Satan’s hounds were at my heels. Armand is the first to reach the doorway, and I see him dexterously reach down in mid-flight, snatching the grimoire from von Dornheim’s grasp before he dashes down the stairwell.

  I follow after him, only a few steps behind, taking the steps five at a time, struggling to keep pace with only one boot. My remaining companions are only a second behind me, determined to reach the chapel before …

  Too late!

  A bloodcurdling roar reverberates down the stairwell, practically sending the shadows scurrying in fright.

  The demon has come to its senses.

  Only a second later, over the sounds of our scuffing shoes and clinking weapons, do I hear it: a frantic clop, clop, clop. The sound is coming from above us; from the banquet hall, to be precise. It sounds like a galloping horse. How could that be? Not unless one of the Riders of the Apocalypse has also been summoned.

  But then I remember the demon’s cloven feet, and realise that the beast is racing across the banquet hall’s flagstone floor – coming after us.

  Spurred by the sounds of pursuit, we burst out of the stairwell and race along the corridor. Reaching the end of the corridor, we barge open the keep door. Then it’s straight across the courtyard, straight to the …

  The chapel! Where is it? I can’t see it. Nor can Armand, judging from the way in which he has come to a sudden halt, and is twisting around indecisively. There’s the stable and storerooms. And over there’s the granary. But there’s no sign of a chapel! Could it be that Blodklutt was mistaken – that there isn’t a chapel, and that he has led us to our deaths?