by Stuart Daly
But then the Lieutenant exits the keep and races off to the left. He calls after us, directing us towards a rundown building tucked under the battlements. It doesn’t look much larger than a hovel, and the only visible indicator that it is a place of worship is the crucifix askew on the roof. It must have just enough room to accommodate an altar and the odd pew. Most importantly, it’s hallowed ground, the only place we’re going to be able to face the demon – our only hope of survival. And so we race over to it. With the exception of Klaus, we are a procession of wounded, desperate men, nursing injuries and lathered in a mixture of sweat and blood. All driven by a will to survive, forcing us to keep moving, to make it to the safety of the chapel.
Blodklutt is the first to reach the building, and he shoulders open the door and rushes inside. I follow straight after him, racing into the gloom beyond, paying a cursory glance at the room’s layout. I was correct in my assumption that the chapel was small. It is some twelve yards wide, and only a little longer. Three pews, rotten and broken with age, are positioned in the centre of the room. An altar, with an alcove and statue located behind it, stands in the shadows on the far side of the room.
‘The door!’ Blodklutt calls out as the rest of our company assembles in the chapel. ‘We must barricade it. Here – this pew. Help me move it.’
We rush over to the pew. Despite its broken-down condition, it’s incredibly heavy, and it takes four of us to move it. Having braced it against the door, barricading ourselves inside, we step back and ready our weapons. Trying to regain our breath, our hearts beating wildly, we stare expectantly at the door, waiting for the demon to reach the chapel.
There’s the sound of Bethlen’s heavy breathing, and Armand clicking his tongue. And then comes the sound of movement from outside. By the sound of it, the demon is moving impossibly fast, racing across the courtyard, coming straight at us.
CRASH! The demon throws itself against the door. Heavy nail-studded oak beams splinter like toothpicks. The pew is knocked back. But the iron cross-pieces keep the door intact.
The door has withstood the demon’s fury, kept it at bay. But it won’t hold against a second charge. Realising this, and hoping that their bulk and strength will be able to bolster the door, von Frankenthal and Bethlen race over and throw their shoulders against it.
Against any other foe, I’m sure von Frankenthal’s and Bethlen’s massive frames would be enough. But we are facing no ordinary enemy, and I fear that even von Frankenthal’s shoulders will be as ineffective in holding out the demon as trying to plug a burst dam with a pebble.
‘Hold it for as long as you can,’ Blodklutt says, and gestures for the rest of us to reload our firearms. ‘Buy us enough time to ready our pistols. It will be best if we can take this beast out before it gets in close.’
‘We’ll give you as long as you need,’ von Frankenthal says, and draws a dagger from his belt in preparation for close-quarters combat.
Klaus, however, flourishes his rapier and scoffs at Lieutenant Blodklutt. He then takes off his hat, tosses it aside, and pushes past von Frankenthal and Bethlen to take a position by the door.
‘Steel is all I need,’ he boasts, looking back at us contemptuously. ‘Why don’t you Papal scum just cower at the back?’ He peers through a crack in the door. ‘I’ll take the beast. I’ll meet it with drawn steel. So move away and give me room. And I swear – once I finish with the demon, then I’ll deal with you. This has dragged on long enough.’
Von Frankenthal doesn’t respond to the Holy Spirit’s comment. He just shoots him a disgusted look, and manages to reposition himself at the side of the door. ‘Get ready!’ he warns shortly, looking through a crack between the door and the wall. ‘The demon’s going to charge again.’
I don’t think anything could prepare us for what happens next. Before any of us could notice, Bethlen draws himself up behind Klaus … and drives his rapier into his back.
Klaus gives a bloodcurdling cry and his body arches violently. He claws desperately at the door, writhing in pain against the blade driven into his back. But Bethlen is merciless, and he drives his blade deeper, until only the hilt remains visible. Klaus’s body contorts in pain until he slumps against the door to which he has been impaled.
‘Consider our alliance void,’ Bethlen says, extracting his blade and sneering sadistically as Klaus drops lifeless to the floor. ‘At least he’s one problem we no longer have to worry about. So much for the Holy Spirit.’
We stand speechless, staring at Bethlen. Despite the fact that we knew we would eventually have to fight Klaus, none of us suspected that Bethlen would slay him in this manner. Yes, Klaus was a member of the Brotherhood of the Cross, a sworn enemy of the Roman Catholic Church. The Brotherhood was responsible for the deaths of over a hundred people. They had even targeted our order over the course of the past few months. But that did not mean that Klaus should have died with a sword driven into his back. There had been neither skill, nor courage, involved in his death. All that had been required was a cold-blooded heart.
Raised on the streets of Mannheim, Bethlen had had to fight for everything in life, even if it meant performing deeds which many would consider heartless. A window of opportunity presented itself when Klaus turned his back, and Bethlen, driven by the same instincts that allowed him to survive as a child on the crime-infested alleyways of Mannheim, had simply seized it.
The moment he drove his blade into Klaus’s back, however, I realised that Bethlen and I are nothing alike. I had previously believed that, had it not been for my uncle who had rescued me from the streets and took me under his wing, I would have become like Bethlen, angry, and desperate for more than life had presented me with. I now know that’s not the case. Irrespective of how desperate a situation becomes, I will never compromise the values of compassion, mercy and honour. I could have never stabbed Klaus through the back. Although he was an enemy, he should not have been robbed of an honourable death.
In his foolish actions, Bethlen also paid scant regard to the fact that we needed Klaus’s blade. The Holy Spirit was a skilled swordsman, perhaps even better than Lieutenant Blodklutt and Armand, and his expertise was needed to defeat the demon. We’ll need every able-bodied man on deck for the ensuing fight. I just hope that Bethlen’s merciless act will not have disastrous consequences for the rest of us.
‘What’s done is done,’ Blodklutt comments. His grim tone suggests that he, too, was unimpressed by Bethlen’s brutality. ‘Now ready yourselves. The demon comes!’
No sooner has the Lieutenant drawn our attention back to the demon, than – CRASH! The door explodes inwards and splinters of wood shower the room. We’re all knocked off our feet. The blast throws von Frankenthal and me across the chapel, where we slam hard against the wall.
I slide to the floor, the wind knocked out of me. I’m vaguely aware of voices barking around me. They are desperate voices, those of men who know they are about to die. All I can see are a thousand pinpricks of silver, flashing before me like a brilliant night sky. It would be so tempting to succumb to my fatigue; to let myself fall under the bewitching spell of the stars and slip into a deep sleep. But some primal instinct forces me to regain my feet. Even in my dazed state, I am aware that I am in mortal danger.
I stagger to my feet and support myself against the wall. Trying to fight back the reeling sensation in my head, I take some deep breaths. Then, gradually, I start to come back to my senses.
I snap my head back to where the door used to be. It looks as if a petard went off. There’s splintered wood everywhere, and a body stirs somewhere under the rubble. And then I see von Frankenthal. He’s regained his feet, crossed back to the doorway, and is wrestling the demon!
Fortunately, the demon’s skin is no longer rippling in flames. Perhaps it’s some side effect of being on hallowed ground, stripping the demon of some of its powers. Whatever the reason, von Frankenthal isn’t able to capitalise much on the situation. I’ve got to give him credit for trying, though
. He’s trying desperately to weave through the beast’s defences with his dagger. But his efforts are futile. It will only be a matter of seconds until the demon tears him to shreds.
As if reading my thoughts, the demon lashes out with its tail, wraps it around von Frankenthal’s legs, and – with a tremendous yank – pulls him to the ground. The demon then stands triumphantly over its helpless prey, its claws extended in preparation to dive in for the kill.
Realising that immediate action is needed, I push myself away from the wall and stumble towards the demon. I have not had any time to consider how I will draw the beast away from my stricken companion, but I know that if I do not distract it, von Frankenthal will surely die.
With no readied firearm, and knowing that I do not have time to cross the room and engage the demon with my blade, I collect a length of wood from the floor and hurl it at the beast. Although only intended as a hasty distracting shot, the missile hits the demon square on the forehead, making it stagger back, clutching its head in pain. My effort only distracts the beast for a few seconds. Before I’ve had time to give any thought to how I should seize this advantage, the demon gives a demented roar, flexes its muscle-corded arms, and sets its eyes upon me.
I may have saved von Frankenthal, but I have now placed myself in extreme peril. Overcome with fear, I start to shake uncontrollably and fall to my knees. I try to call out for help, but I’m so terrified that the words get caught in my throat. I’ve come close to death many times today, but I fear that there will be no escape for me this time.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Armand and Lieutenant Blodklutt emerge from the shadows behind the altar. Consumed by my need to save von Frankenthal, I had completely forgotten about my remaining companions. Whereas Bethlen lies dazed beneath the shattered remnants of the door, the Lieutenant and Armand had withdrawn to the relative safety of the far side of the chapel. There they had focused on reloading their pistols, and they brandish these as they step forward.
‘Step no closer to the boy,’ Blodklutt threatens, drawing the demon’s attention. ‘Come and face me.’
The demon stops, snaps its head to the right to consider its new opponents. Then, without even so much as a cursory glance at me, it moves towards them, confident that it will tear through them like a scythe through wheat.
It has taken no more than three steps before it hesitates. It narrows its eyes warily, evidently suspicious of the dogged witch hunters standing before it sporting triumphant grins.
For the first time, doubt registers on the demon’s features, like someone who has just realised they have wandered into an assassin’s trap. And only now does it see through its bloodlust and take in its surroundings, noticing that it has charged blindly into the chapel, onto hallowed ground – the only place where our weapons can slay it.
Lieutenant Blodklutt and Armand level their pistols and fire.
The blamming sounds of their pistols’ reports are drowned by a bloodcurdling roar as the demon takes both shots square in the chest. Staggering back, it loses its footing and collapses to its knees. It clutches a hand at its chest and stares, mesmerised, at the blood – as black as oil – spilling from the gunshot wounds, flowing between its claws.
It’s obvious that the demon has never before been injured. Never before has it experienced pain, seen the stain of its own blood. For the first time it has tasted the bitter poison of mortality.
It turns, looks back at the remains of the door, gauges if it has time to escape from the chapel – if it has time to flee to safety. But time is a luxury the demon doesn’t have. For no sooner has the smoke cleared from their pistols than Armand and Blodklutt draw their blades and descend upon the beast in a blur of steel. At the same moment, von Frankenthal wrestles free from the beast’s tail and places himself between the demon and the doorway – a final barrier of flesh and steel between the demon and its freedom.
Fighting back the wave of fear that had previously incapacitated me, I climb gingerly to my feet, force myself to aid my companions. Though it’s not as if they’re going to be in any need of my assistance. Before I’ve taken even one step, Blodklutt weaves through the demon’s defences and drives his blade into its chest – deep into its heart.
The demon gives such a terrifying roar it’s a miracle that the walls of the chapel don’t collapse. It slides from the Lieutenant’s blade to lie in a pool of its own blood.
With the demon slain, I sit on the floor, overcome by a mixture of exhaustion and elation. I cannot believe that the fighting has finally come to an end. I’m so relieved I feel like calling out at the top of my voice in defiance of fate.
Armand prods the demon with the toe of his boot, checking to see if it is indeed dead. Satisfied, he extracts Bethlen from beneath the door, lends him a shoulder, and assists him over to one of the pews. He then crosses over to me, slumps down by my side, and slaps me across the back.
‘You’ve done well,’ he commends. ‘I’ll fight by your side any day.’
I know that’s a compliment, but fighting is the last thing on earth I feel like doing right now. I hope it’s going to be a long time before I have to draw my sword again. I knew that when I joined the Hexenjäger I would be required to fight the forces of darkness. I just didn’t expect to have to fight them all within the same day. I’ve seen enough today to make Pieter Bruegel’s The Triumph of Death appear as a painting of a church picnic. But it’s all over now. It’s time to sheathe our blades, bandage our wounds, and make our way back to Burg Grimmheim for a well-earned rest.
Rest – the word seems so alien. I feel as though I’ve been strapped to a bolting horse all day, clinging for sheer life, hurtling along a forest path riddled with exposed roots and low-lying branches. Now the ride is finally over. And this broken-down chapel is to be where I repose. It’s not exactly the sort of place I’d usually consider resting in, but beggars can’t be choosers. And right now the rubble-strewn floor of the chapel is as inviting as a feather and down quilt.
I lie back down on the floor and close my eyes, suddenly aware of a million aches and pains all over my body. With the rush of combat subsiding, the wounds I have sustained are starting to register. It’s funny how our bodies do that. I’ve heard stories of soldiers who have had an arm blown off, and yet they’ve managed to flee from fields of combat, only to fall dead from shock upon learning that they are missing a limb. Fortunately, I haven’t been critically wounded, though I’ve never before felt so bruised and battered.
Movement near the doorway catches my attention. I look up to see von Frankenthal rummaging through the rubble. What’s he up to? Doesn’t he ever stop?
‘It doesn’t make any sense to waste perfectly good weapons,’ he announces at length, having retrieved Klaus Grimmelshausen’s blades. He tucks a dagger into his belt, then dusts off Klaus’s rapier and tests its weight. ‘This is a fine blade. The work of a master swordsmith. It’s not very often you see a blade of this quality. The hilt appears to be of Flemish design, but the blade was fashioned in German-speaking lands – by the famous bladesmith, Tesche of Solingen, to be precise, as revealed by the surname inscribed here.’ He pauses, turns and looks at me. ‘You should have it.’
I shake my head and raise a hand, refusing his offer. ‘A nice blade indeed, but a pawn of evil. I dread to think how many innocent lives it’s stolen.’
‘All the more reason why you should become its master,’ Lieutenant Blodklutt says, drenching his face in water from a leather water-skin that had been hanging from his belt. ‘It’s not the sword that is evil, but the one who wields it. A rapier such as this – in your hands – would become an instrument of good. Besides, you’ve more than proven your worth today. Consider it a spoil of war.’
Bethlen raises his eyes from the pistol he’s been reloading, and glares at me. Is that jealousy burning in his eyes? I wouldn’t want to deny Bethlen a reward that he believes he rightfully deserves, especially if it gives him more reason to hate me. Then again, I dread to think
of how many more merciless acts the blade will be put to if it ends up in his hands. I’ve already seen him assassinate a man from behind; it makes me wonder how many other people have suffered in Bethlen’s hands.
And in that instant, I know to accept the sword. I climb to my feet and stagger over to von Frankenthal, who promptly hands me the blade and its baldric. I test the weight of the rapier, and slash it through the air for measure. I don’t know too much about swords, but it feels like a fine blade indeed. I’ve never before seen such an elaborate hilt – comprising the wolf’s-head cross-guard, a large ovoid pommel, a grip of silver twistwire and a pierced shell guard.
Not wanting to sport my new trophy in front of Bethlen, however, I sling the baldric over my shoulder, sheathe the blade, and sit down beside Armand.
‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ I say, drawing the Frenchman’s attention. ‘When we were back in the banquet hall, facing Heinrich von Dornheim, Lieutenant Blodklutt had said that he had been so drained by the Malleus Maleficarum that he would not be able to use it again for some time. But why couldn’t someone else simply use the tome? Why must the Lieutenant bear the sole burden of using the Hammer of the Witches?’
‘It takes years of training to be able to wield the magic of the Malleus Maleficarum,’ Armand explains. ‘The text was created by the German witch hunters Kramer and Sprenger as an instructive text for the detection and interrogation of witches. But they hid a secret code within their book, carefully concealed within cryptic verses. Those who know how to decipher the code are granted access to magic that can combat Satan’s most powerful minions. The magic is difficult to wield – even Kramer and Sprenger were wary of unleashing its true powers. It is normal practice for at least one member of each company of Hexenjäger sent into the field to be trained in its use. In this instance, that person is Blodklutt. He is the only one here who knows how to read the cryptic verses.’
