The Witch Hunter Chronicles 1

by Stuart Daly

  It’s not uncommon for castles and palaces to have secret escape routes. Sliding wall panels, false bookcases – even wells – often grant access to secret passages that lead to safe-points beyond the castle. Just as the early Christians had used the catacombs to hide from the Romans during times of persecution, I’m hoping that this inscription reveals the location of an underground escape passage.

  There’s only one way to find out. And so I leap to my feet and spit into my hands. I then take a deep breath, muster my resolve, and throw myself – hard! – against the statue. I push with all my might, but it feels as if the statue weighs a ton. I might as well be trying to push over one of the Egyptian pyramids! It’s not long before the blood is hammering in my temples. After what seems to be an eternity, I finally manage to shift the statue a few feet to the right.

  I step back, try to regain my breath, and notice that the wide base of the statue had covered a narrow flight of stairs, barely three feet wide, and descending into darkness. I punch a hand into the air in victory. I was right. There is a concealed entrance, offering perhaps our only means of escape.

  I call out to my companions.

  ‘Well done, young Jakob,’ Armand says, scurrying over. ‘How did you ever find this?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I say. ‘Let’s just get out of here for now.’

  Lieutenant Blodklutt stares down into the darkness, his eyes shining with newfound hope. ‘Jakob – you lead. Then Christian and Armand. Robert and I will take the rear.’

  Without a second to lose, I make my way carefully down the stairs. I have barely moved down a few yards before it becomes so dark that I can hardly see where I’m going. This isn’t good. If we don’t have light we’ll trip and break our necks.

  But I see the torch, placed in a bracket on the wall to my left. Saying a silent prayer, I light the torch with my tinder and flint, and then snatch it from the wall. Then it’s straight down the stairs, straight into the … cobwebs! This would be a fly’s worst nightmare. And the smell is terrible. The air’s so stale you don’t want to breathe. You can practically taste it.

  I reach the bottom of the stairs and enter a long passageway, some three yards wide, carved into the stone foundations of the castle. I race along this new passage, von Frankenthal, an avalanche of muscle, following only a step behind me. Then there’s Armand, urging us forward, deeper into the darkness. Finally, Blodklutt and Robert bring up the rear, casting fearful glances over their shoulders, wary of just how long we have before the Marquis de Beynac learns of our escape. For, when he does, he’ll send his troops – led by Horst von Skullschnegger – to hunt us down. And in our exhausted state, there’s only one way that scenario will end.

  In a bloodbath.

  We move through the tunnel as fast as we can. Our laboured breaths and the scrape of our swords against the stone walls reverberate in the narrow passage. But these sounds are drowned by the all-too-regular curses emitted by von Frankenthal as he crashes his head against the roof. He’d better be careful or he’ll leave a trail of blood for the Marquis’s troops to follow. Needless to say, it’s not as if they are going to need to follow a trail to work out which way we’ve gone. There have been no side-passages, no alternate routes; just the stairs, and then one long, straight passage through the darkness. We have been presented with no opportunities to throw the Marquis off our trail. All we can do is put as much distance between the Marquis and ourselves as possible – and find, I’m hoping, an exit from the passage. Then we’ll disappear into the forested slopes of the Harz Mountains, never to be seen in this area again.

  It sounds all too simple. But even the simplest of plans comes to an abrupt halt when you find your escape route blocked by a lowered metal portcullis.

  Trapped!

  And at that very moment, we hear cries of alarm echo down through the tunnel. The Marquis de Beynac has entered the chapel and learned of our escape – meaning that we may have only seconds before he discovers the secret passage.

  We have to move – fast.

  I try lifting the portcullis, only to find that it’s stuck fast. But we can’t get caught here. Not now. Not after all we’ve been through today. There has to be a way to get out of here.

  I start looking for a mechanism – a release catch – that will raise the iron gate. Von Frankenthal pushes past me, flexes his massive arms, and throws himself against the barrier – two hundred and fifty pounds of corded muscle against two hundred pounds of riveted iron. The veins in his neck look as if they’re about to pop out of his skin. You could practically tight-rope walk across them. But not even von Frankenthal’s prodigious strength is enough to raise the portcullis. After several seconds he slumps back, exhausted, defeated.

  ‘Can we get through?’ Lieutenant Blodklutt’s voice is a desperate whisper from behind.

  ‘I’m working on it,’ I say, probing my torch into the darkness on either side of the barrier, searching for a release catch. There’s nothing but chiselled stone.

  ‘Well, whatever you’re going to do, you’d better do it fast,’ Robert says. ‘They’ve discovered the tunnel.’

  No sooner have the words left the Scot’s mouth than sounds of pursuit carry down the passage: the clink of weapons, a cough, and the muffled scrape of footsteps; telltale signs that the Marquis’s troops are descending the stairs into the tunnel.

  Panic starts to set in. My pulse quickens and the hairs on my arms stand erect. I still can’t see any sign of a release mechanism.

  ‘Extinguish the torch,’ Blodklutt commands. ‘Don’t make us easier targets than we already are.’

  I have one last desperate search, but can’t see anything. I then stamp out the torch, and start groping along the walls in the darkness, still searching in vain for the elusive release catch.

  ‘We’re going to hold them off whilst you find us a way out of here.’

  I nod in response to the Lieutenant’s instructions. But finding a way out is proving more difficult than I thought. Taking some deep breaths, I try to calm down, and try to remember all that I can about portcullises. Perhaps I’m overlooking something.

  Portcullises are defensive features, raised by a chain attached to a winch mechanism. When the winch is wound, the metal gate is lifted into the roof. Meaning this portcullis must be able to ascend into the tunnel roof.

  Surely the person who designed this passage did not intend for people escaping from the castle to get trapped down here. That is, of course, unless they had some twisted sense of humour. If that’s the case, I’m sure they’re laughing in their grave right now.

  A terrible thought enters my mind and sends a cold shudder crawling across my skin. Slowly, I reach up to check if there’s a gap in the stone above the portcullis. My heart sinks as my fingertips push into hard stone.

  The portcullis was never intended to be raised. It appears to be fixed to the stone roof of the tunnel. This tunnel isn’t an escape passage – it’s a death trap!

  I swallow back the wave of fear rising in my stomach and shake my head in bewilderment. This can’t be right. Why bother creating this tunnel if it only leads to a fixed metal gate? A dead end? That makes no sense. Again, a voice in the back of my mind tells me that I’m overlooking something staring me straight in the face. But what?

  I hear my companions priming their pistols and preparing themselves for the inevitable fight. I have to remain focused – to search for a solution to our predicament. I grip the portcullis and close my eyes in deep thought, willing it to reveal its secret. Armand’s whispered warning makes me snap my head around and stare back down the tunnel, where – by the light cast by their lanterns – I see Marquis de Beynac’s men stalking stealthily along the passage, no more than thirty yards away. Their drawn blades glisten red in the wan light – a frightening premonition of the blood they will shortly spill.

  ‘Get down!’ Blodklutt whispers harshly. ‘Pistols first. Select your target. Make your shot count. But wait for my order.’

 
I know the Lieutenant instructed me to find a way out of the tunnel, but I’m not turning my back on this fight. Dropping down beside von Frankenthal, I ready my flintlock pistol – which is not an easy task in the complete darkness – and draw back the firing pin. I do this slowly, for I dare not risk making any sound that will betray our position. Then I level my firearm at the advancing soldiers and select a target.

  I very much doubt the Marquis de Beynac would risk his life in entering the tunnel. I’m sure he’s back in the courtyard, pulling the strings from a distance, never in personal danger. But some sixth sense tells me that Horst von Skullschnegger has come down after us. I can feel his formidable presence, almost as if his eyes are prying through the darkness into my very soul.

  But which one is he? He wouldn’t be the one at the front left – the balding man with the bulbous nose. I don’t think it would be the man directly behind him, either. He has the anxious stance of a man who’s used to receiving orders, rather than issuing them.

  It could be that tall one in the middle, crouching lower than the others so as to not hit his head on the roof. He has a stocky neck and a terrific scowl that could put the fear of God into many a hardened soldier. But, again, he lacks a leader’s presence of authority. Which makes me think it can’t be this man after all. I imagine Horst von Skullschnegger would combine fighting prowess and intelligence – like that man at the rear of the troop, clad in a royal blue doublet. Dual rapiers jostle by his thighs, and he has penetrating eyes that warrant respect. His every move seems to bespeak confidence.

  That must be Horst von Skullschnegger. And so, with the target identified, I level my pistol at his chest.

  We are outnumbered, trapped, wounded and exhausted. The odds are stacked heavily against us. But we do have one thing to our advantage – the one thing that could turn the tide in our favour: the element of surprise.

  Hidden in darkness as we are, the Marquis de Beynac’s men cannot see us. They don’t know we are lying in wait for them, monitoring their every move, our targets already selected. If we do this right, we have the chance of taking out nearly half their number before they even realise they’re under attack. And so we wait, in the dark, fingers poised on triggers, watching the Marquis’s men draw closer.

  ‘Now.’ Blodklutt whispers the command so softly I barely hear the order.

  At that instant – with our would-be attackers barely twenty yards away – we fire. The report of our pistols, magnified in the confined space of the tunnel, is deafening, forcing me to turn my head away and shut my eyes tight in a vain attempt to muffle the sound.

  I hear panic and confusion descend upon the Marquis’s troop. There’s a desperate scream, as if someone is in their death throes, and an unholy chorus of cursing and swearing. Then there’s the sound of rapid retreat, and the odd, desperate pistol shot, fired with the precision of an arthritis-inflicted novice musketeer who’s facing a cavalry charge and only being stopped from fleeing the battlefield by his sergeant’s pistol.

  Like I said, desperate shots, no harm to anybody.

  That is, of course, until the hat is shot clear from my head. That was close. Too close. An inch lower and my brains would have been plastered over the tunnel wall.

  I try shuffling back, deeper into the darkness of the tunnel, and only when I have moved back a yard or two do I look back at the Marquis’s men. They have fled from the tunnel, leaving behind the lantern and three dead.

  Three dead – that’s a good start. We’ve evened the odds somewhat. But now they know we’re down here, lying in wait for them, I doubt they’ll make the same mistake again. And I can’t see Horst von Skullschnegger amongst the dead. He must be back up in the chapel, plotting with the Marquis de Beynac, devising some other way of coming down to get us. Come after us he will, for we’ve just killed three of his troops. He won’t stop now until he’s quenched his thirst for revenge with our blood.

  Minutes pass slowly, and it’s deathly quiet. The abandoned lantern has lit the corridor in a wan orange light, spilling all the way back to the stairs. But we’re safe, located just on the edge of its perimeter, blanketed in darkness, hidden in shadow. This is another factor to our advantage. For although we can’t be seen, we’ll be able to open fire on the Marquis’s men the instant they descend the stairs.

  Lieutenant Blodklutt finally relaxes his guard, gives the command to reload, and I turn back to the portcullis. It’s at that moment, as I’m rummaging through the dark, trying to find my hat, that I discover something that makes my heart skip a beat with excitement. For my fingers have discovered a narrow crevice, no wider than an inch, and running the width of the tunnel. And it’s directly beneath the portcullis.

  The portcullis is not fixed into the stone, as I had previously thought. Rather than being raised, this portcullis must descend into the ground.

  Leaping to my feet with newfound hope, I grip the iron bars. Instead of pushing upwards, I pull downwards. There’s a grinding sound, like a coil of rusted springs being pushed tight. And the portcullis descends a good foot into the ground!

  I’d take my hat off to the engineer who invented this simple ploy – that is, of course, if I could find my hat. The original inhabitants of this castle, having fled into the tunnel and escaped through the portcullis, would have found their way out of the secret passage and off into the hills whilst their pursuers would have been stuck at this barrier. A ruse so simple, yet guaranteed to perplex any pursuer, granting you enough time to escape from the tunnel and disappear into the neighboring countryside.

  ‘We’re through,’ I whisper back to my companions, grinning triumphantly. ‘We can get out.’

  But they’re not sharing my enthusiasm. For their focus is on the powder keg – with a hissing fuse! – that has just been rolled down the stairs and is coming down the tunnel, directly towards us!

  There’s a desperate scramble as my companions leap to their feet.

  ‘Get out!’ Lieutenant Blodklutt yells, his horror-filled eyes locked on the powder keg as he drags and pushes everyone back to the portcullis.

  I push down on the iron barrier with all my might, lowering it a good three feet. But I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold it. There is definitely a spring mechanism forcing the portcullis back up. I’m already struggling to keep it in place. A few seconds more and I fear I’ll be pinned against the roof.

  ‘Go! Get through,’ I roar. ‘I can’t hold this much longer!’

  My companions don’t need any urging. Within a heartbeat they’ve climbed over the barrier and are making their way through the darkness, moving deeper into the tunnel. Which means that, in the panicked confusion, I’ve been left by myself to try to clamber over the portcullis without any assistance!

  I snap my head back up the tunnel, to where the powder keg has stopped, trapped in the legs of one of the slain soldiers. It is no more than fifteen yards away, and the fuse is impossibly small.

  My eyes wide with terror, I push down on the portcullis with all of my remaining strength. I manage to hoist over my right leg. But at that very moment I feel the barrier rise, and two pointed metal bars press hard into me. I try lifting my left foot over, but again the portcullis shifts, this time rising several feet, lifting me off the ground, and pushing my back against the roof. Don’t tell me this is the way I’m going to die – impaled by a two-hundred pound metal barrier!

  Feeling my strength wane, I pay a hurried glance at the powder keg, only to find that I can no longer see the fuse. It’s worked its way down into the barrel. I squeeze my eyes shut in preparation for the explosion.

  Suddenly I feel a powerful force push down on the portcullis, lowering it two feet. An iron-like grip seizes me by the shirt, lifts me off the barrier, and plants me on the other side of the tunnel where there’s a slim hope of life.

  ‘You didn’t think we’d leave you behind, did you? Now run!’

  I’d recognise that avalanche of a voice anywhere. But von Frankenthal hardly needed to waste his br
eath telling me that, for I’m racing along the tunnel the second my feet touch the ground. My hands are outstretched before me, feeling my way through the darkness. I’m aware of von Frankenthal’s massive frame by my side, pushing me forward, knowing that we only have seconds before …

  KABOOM!

  There’s a massive explosion from behind! It rips through the tunnel, consuming everything in a blast of hot fury. Not even a heartbeat passes before it engulfs us in a storm of rubble, fire and smoke. Von Frankenthal grabs me, tries to shelter me from the impact, but we are thrown off our feet and crash heavily to the floor.

  I bury my head in my hands and do all that I can under these circumstances – send a hasty prayer to survive this Hell’s inferno.

  An eternity seems to pass before I open my eyes. Spitting dirt from my mouth, I push myself up onto an elbow. I shake my head in disbelief, trying to come to terms with the fact that I somehow managed to survive the explosion. Then I inspect my surroundings.

  It’s pitch black, and as silent as a grave. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder hang heavily in the air, forcing me to cough and breathe through my sleeve. A sharp twang of pain draws my attention to a nasty gash on my left forearm. I feel the hot trickle of blood run down my hand. At least it’s not life threatening. A few bandages will take care of it.

  Von Frankenthal stirs by my side.

  ‘We made it. Can you believe it?’ I say, barely able to hear my own voice over my ringing ears.

  Von Frankenthal coughs, clears his throat, and dusts himself off. ‘I thought we were dead,’ he says, his voice raised, his hearing also evidently affected by the explosion. ‘It’s nothing short of a miracle we survived that. Are you hurt?’