The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Read online

  ‘And the final member of the Sons of Cain?’ the Frenchman asks, looking back at Witch Finder Blackwood.

  The Witch Finder holds Armand’s stare for a while, almost as if warning him that he should brace himself for what he is about to hear. ‘The final member is their leader, Alistair McClodden, the Demon of Moray Firth. He joined the forces of Parliament in the opening months of the Civil War, infuriated by King Charles’s attempt to impose the Book of Common Prayer on his country. He’s a giant of a man, standing nearly as tall as our friend here.’ He pauses as he jerks his chin towards von Frankenthal. ‘He has flaming red hair, wears a kilt and wields a massive, two-handed claymore. He also has the strength of three men and goes berserk in battle. Once he starts killing, he does not stop.’

  ‘At least we now know what we are up against,’ Francesca says sombrely.

  Armand looks down at the floor for some time, his hands clasped on the hilts of his swords, and I wonder if he is questioning his decision to agree to help Bishop Henchman. At length, he looks up, stares hard at Witch Finder Blackwood, and asks, ‘Can we beat them?’

  The leader of the Angeli Mortis nods. ‘If we can break the spell that makes the Sons of Cain immortal, then we can kill them.’ He moves off with Armand, Bishop Henchman and Brother Lidcombe to the far side of the foyer, where they talk in hushed tones.

  Dorian, meanwhile, notices the rifle slung over my shoulder and walks behind me to inspect the weapon. ‘An impressive-looking rifle,’ he says, then adds in a mocking tone, ‘but can you use it?’

  I notice von Frankenthal bristle at the English witch hunter’s comment, but it is Francesca who intervenes. ‘The Ghost and Spartaco can thank their lucky stars that Jakob didn’t have a rifle on him last night,’ she says. ‘If he had, he would have put an end to them in a matter of seconds.’

  I wish Francesca hadn’t said that. I know she is just trying to look out for me, but there’s no need to lie, particularly to someone who is evidently proficient with a rifle. Chances are Dorian will now want to challenge me to a shooting competition, and that’s the last thing I want.

  ‘So, you fancy yourself as a marksman?’ Dorian asks, stopping in front of me and staring me up and down, his upper lip curled contemptuously. Despite being painted white, his face is riddled with cuts and lacerations, giving him a truly nightmarish appearance. ‘Perhaps we could have a competition one day, to see who is the better marksman?’

  My stomach tightens. Nice job, Francesca.

  As if the situation could not get any worse, she then says, ‘Just name the time and place. That is, of course, if you are prepared to put your reputation where your mouth is.’

  ‘Oh, I am prepared to do that,’ Dorian replies with smug confidence. ‘Let’s just hope that today Jakob shoots before he lets the enemy get away.’

  In spite of his earlier comments commending Dorian as a brave and skilled fighter, von Frankenthal’s eyes darken like a gathering storm. ‘You’re out of line,’ he warns.

  Dorian snorts and walks over to join Prayer. ‘You hold no authority over me. I’ll do – and say – as I please.’

  Von Frankenthal takes a menacing step towards Dorian. ‘You’ll do what?’

  I reach up, placing a restraining hand on von Frankenthal’s shoulder. ‘I’m certain Dorian means no offence. He is merely frustrated that he has been forced to work with a rival order. I’m sure we would feel the same if the Angeli Mortis turned up unannounced at Burg Grimmheim, bearing a letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury, informing us that we had to work with them. I, for one, would not be happy. I’d see it as a slap across the face; an insult, questioning my abilities as a witch hunter.’

  A surprised look crosses Dorian’s face, evidently shocked that I should demonstrate empathy for him. I actually believe I have a good understanding of his nature. He uses a rifle – a weapon preferred by snipers, solitary fighters who use stealth to blend into their environment to pick off their targets. They work best when alone, unhindered by less skilled companions, who may betray their presence. I also recall how last night Dorian went after the Ghost by himself. He did not accompany the rest of us through Whitehall. The first I knew that he had left the Prince’s lodgings was when he emerged from the shadows, his rifle trained on the Ghost.

  I have firsthand experience in seeing what rivalry can do between orders. Back in Sodom it almost cost Captain Blodklutt his life when he was inadvertently stabbed in the shoulder by the Spaniard, Diego Alvarez. Just for once, I would like to think that I could trust my companions, and not have to worry about whose blade – or rifle – I have to keep a careful eye on.

  ‘Let’s not lose sight of who the enemy is here,’ I continue, believing my attempt at diplomacy is working and that Dorian will not snap the olive branch I am offering him. I also note that Prayer, standing beside Dorian, has lowered her eyes, as if embarrassed by her companion’s behaviour. ‘Should we fail, not only will London burn, but the Antichrist will be summoned from the Codex Gigas. That is why we have joined forces; not because we question the ability of the Angeli Mortis, but because the threat is so great. Should we fail, the greatest evil known to man will enter the world. And we must stop that from happening at all costs. So let’s keep our swords in their scabbards until we reach the Hanging Tree. It would be foolish for us to give the Sons of Cain an unfair advantage.’ I look at Dorian. ‘And I will accept your challenge in a game of marksmanship. But only after we have dealt with the Sons of Cain. And only as a friend, done in good will.’

  ‘Now there’s a future commander in the making,’ Bishop Henchman commends, walking over to pat me on the shoulder. I was unaware that the others had finished their discussion and watched the entire affair. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. ‘Jakob is right. You need to bury your differences and work together. The price of failure is too great. Hexenjäger or Angeli Mortis; Catholic or Protestant. It matters not when we are facing the greatest evil to have ever threatened this world.’

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ von Frankenthal asks, the fuse of his rage having fizzled out.

  ‘We shall assess the situation upon arriving at the Hanging Tree,’ Witch Finder Blackwood says. ‘We need to see who – or what – is guarding the satchel and gibbets. With any luck, the Sons of Cain won’t be there, as I strongly believe they are already in London and have perhaps already made their way beneath Saint Paul’s with the Codex Gigas. But the four Hell Hounds guard the tree, day and night. They will need to be slain, and they will not go down easily.’

  A wry smile crosses von Frankenthal’s lips. ‘Four dogs, you say. How hard can that be?’

  It is the Witch Finder’s turn to give a wry smile. ‘I take it you’ve never before encountered a Hell Hound?’ When von Frankenthal shakes his head, he adds, ‘Then prepare yourself to face four of the most dangerous beasts to have ever been spawned from Hell’s bowels.’

  While the Witch Finder’s words do little to unnerve von Frankenthal, who cracks his knuckles in anticipation of the challenge, a terrible nervousness wells in my stomach. I am looking forward to this ensuing fight as much as a condemned criminal anticipates taking their final steps up the gallows to the hangman’s noose. But I remind myself that my friends will be counting on me, and that it could be my blade or rifle that turns the tide in our favour.

  There’s a knock on the door and a guard appears, announcing that the horses are awaiting us. We head outside, mount up, bid farewell to Bishop Henchman and follow Witch Finder Blackwood through Whitehall into the bustling streets of London. I cannot help but feel that each clop of our horses’ hooves on the cobbles is like a death knell counting down the time to our impending doom.

  We have only been riding through the city for a few minutes when I pull up my mount and stare down a shadow-filled laneway off to my left.

  ‘What is it?’ Armand asks, drawing up alongside me. ‘You look as if
you have just seen a ghost.’

  ‘Not a ghost, but Justus Blad, the Witch Bishop of Aachen.’

  I had met Justus earlier this year during a meeting held in Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel’s office to discuss the secret location of the Tablet of Breaking. One of the Inquisition’s most feared interrogators, Justus had asked how I knew of the relic’s resting place. When Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel came to my defence, Justus cast suspicion over the security of our order, questioning if the Devil’s servants had infiltrated the walls of Burg Grimmheim. The Bishop of Paderborn had been forced to intervene, assuring Justus that he was mistaken.

  Believing the creation of the Hexenjäger would undermine the authority of the Inquisition, Justus has been a vocal opponent of our order. He finds evidence of the Devil everywhere he looks. Backed by the full authority of the Holy Roman Inquisition, he has sent hundreds of accused heretics and witches to be burned alive at the stake.

  A doubtful look crosses Armand’s face. ‘That’s impossible. What would a member of the Inquisition be doing in a Protestant land? And down that alley, of all places?’

  Noticing that the rest of our company has stopped several yards down the road waiting for Armand and me, I swing out of my saddle and make my way quickly down the laneway. ‘I don’t know. But I’m sure I saw him. He disappeared into one of the doorways down here.’

  Armand calls out to the others that he won’t be long, dismounts and races after me. There are several two-storey, timber-framed buildings on our left, and we try their doors. All are locked, but I notice a symbol of three Xs carved into the wooden lintel of the last door we try.

  Armand shrugs. ‘Even if it was Justus Blad who you saw, we don’t have time to go knocking on every door. Come on, Jakob. We’re keeping the others waiting.’

  I follow reluctantly after the Frenchman, join our companions and ride out of the city. All the while, I cannot shake the image of Justus Blad from my thoughts. Despite the improbability of the Witch Bishop of Aachen being in London, I’m sure that it wasn’t my imagination playing tricks. What would bring him this far away from Catholic lands, I cannot even begin to imagine.

  An hour or so passes before Witch Finder Blackwood announces that we are only a mile from the cemetery in which the Hanging Tree is located. We stop to have a final check of our weapons, then continue up the road for a further half mile before the Witch Finder steers his horse off to the left, guiding us along a narrow trail.

  I am drawn to a poster nailed to a tree bordering the trail, and I ride over towards it.

  ‘It looks as if somebody is in trouble with the law,’ I comment.

  Armand leans over in his saddle to read the poster: ‘Wanted dead or alive, Claude Duval, for armed robbery at Hampstead Heath.’

  ‘I don’t even know why they bother putting up these wanted posters,’ Witch Finder Blackwood says, nudging his mount along the road, forcing us to follow after him. ‘They’ll never catch the Gentleman Highwayman.’

  Armand raises his eyebrows in interest. ‘The Gentleman Highwayman,’ he says, savouring the sound of the title. ‘I like it. But who is he?’

  ‘Since the Civil War, highwaymen have roamed the byways and roads of this country, holding up stagecoaches and lone travellers,’ the Witch Finder answers. ‘Most are disgruntled ex-soldiers, short of coin since their military units disbanded. Being uncouth, cold-blooded killers, they’d sooner take your life than your money pouch. But there are a few who have acquired hero-like status, winning the hearts of women with their fancy clothing and charm. And of these gentlemen highwaymen there is none more famous than Claude Duval.’

  ‘A fellow Frenchman,’ Armand remarks, impressed.

  Dorian snickers under his breath. ‘Only last month he held up a coach near Hampstead Heath. There was a lady aboard who played a tune on her flageolet – I assume to demonstrate that she wasn’t scared. Impressed, Duval escorted her out of the coach and, in front of her distraught husband and servants, danced with her. He then had the audacity to demand the husband pay for the performance.’

  Armand slaps his thigh and roars with laughter. ‘I like the man! He’s a rascal by my own heart.’

  Francesca steers her mount closer to mine, leans across in her saddle and whispers, ‘As if the world isn’t big enough for just one Armand.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get too excited, Frenchman, for it’s only a matter of time before Duval is caught and dangled from a noose,’ Dorian says, seeming to take a morbid pleasure from the deflated look he receives from Armand.

  Witch Finder Blackwood looks back over his shoulder. ‘How so? They’ve been trying to catch him for several years now and they’ve never got close.’

  Dorian raises a finger to emphasise his point. ‘But now the Thief-taker General has been hired to hunt him down.’

  The Witch Finder makes a surprised look. ‘I wasn’t aware of that. Then I take back my earlier comment, for Duval is as good as hung.’

  ‘So the Thief-taker General actually exists?’ I ask.

  Witch Finder Blackwood nods and I whistle in surprise. Even as far away as Saxony it’s not uncommon for parents to warn their children that if they are not good the Thief-taker General will come and take them. Up until the age of ten I used to have nightmares about the man, believing that if I did not complete all my chores and keep my room clean, he would break into my bedroom at night and drag me off to some nearby gallows. As I got older, I started to doubt his existence, believing he was nothing more than a myth created by parents who wanted to get ill-behaved children off to bed at night. But it seems as if I was wrong.

  Francesca makes a baffled gesture. ‘Would someone care to tell me who this is?’

  Witch Finder Blackwood sets his dark eyes on the Italian. ‘His real name is Shannon Sharpe, and he is the most famous bounty hunter in England. He and his band of four trackers, known as the Grey Runners – a name they have acquired from the grey coats they wear – have tracked thieves, murderers and traitors all the way from the Scottish Highlands down to the pirate coves of Penzance. Once they start hunting you, they never stop.’

  Dorian casts an askance glance at Armand and gives a sadistic smile. ‘So much for the Gentleman Highwayman.’

  Armand gives me a disappointed look and shrugs before we continue along the trail.

  Whereas the road initially wound its way through meadows and farms, we now find ourselves riding through a desolate landscape. The grass here is scorched, and the trees are twisted and black, their branches reaching out like those of charred corpses. The air carries a sickly stench of carrion, and tendrils of mist roam across the landscape like orphaned children searching for their parents after the sacking of a city. Soon it becomes impossible to see further than a hundred yards ahead, and an abandoned church materialises through the grey haze.

  Having tethered our mounts in a copse of withered trees at the base of the hill, we follow the Witch Finder up to the church and pass through its iron-ribbed doors. We assemble in the nave, its floor littered with broken pews and debris. Ravens squabble above us, perched atop the rib cage of wooden beams supporting the broken-down roof, and rats the size of cats scurry away at our approach.

  ‘This is the Church of the Holy Trinity,’ Witch Finder Blackwood announces, his voice a low murmur that sounds alien and intrusive in this space. ‘It was once richly decorated and held congregations of hundreds. That is, of course, until it was gutted by Puritan Roundheads during the Civil War. The service books were ripped apart and trampled underfoot, the altar used for musket practice, and horses were tethered in the aisles. But the final nail was hammered into this church’s coffin when the Sons of Cain arrived, signing their pact with the Devil under the old oak tree in the neighbouring cemetery.’

  ‘Charming.’ Von Frankenthal screws up his nose as he looks around the church. ‘But why have you brought us here?’

&nbs
p; ‘I’ll show you. Follow me.’ The Witch Finder leads us into the northern transept, where he opens a heavy oak door and directs us up a narrow flight of winding stone stairs. Up and up we go, until we eventually reach a wall. There is a ladder set against it, leading to a trap door in the ceiling.

  The Witch Finder looks back at us. ‘We have reached the top of the church’s tower. From here, we’ll be provided with a bird’s-eye view of the cemetery to the south. Not only will we be able to study its layout, but I’m hoping we can observe who is guarding the Hanging Tree. We’ll be able to plan our attack before heading in.’

  He then climbs up the ladder, opens the trap door and leads us out onto the top of the tower. Crouched low – so as to avoid being spotted by anyone, or anything, looking up from the cemetery – we sneak over to the southern wall, hide behind the battlements and slowly lift our heads up to spy over the wall.

  The land to the south slopes down to what appears to be a forest, its perimeter – well over three hundred yards away – only visible for short periods, when wind parts the shroud of mist blanketing the land. Between the church and the distant forest lies the cemetery, its tombstones littered across the ground. The massive stone walls of the cemetery’s few tombs tower over the forest of tombstones and crucifixes, looking like grey galleons trapped in a ghost-like sea. Over a hundred yards away, in the centre of the graveyard, stands a massive black oak tree, rising out of the sea of mist like some titanic beast.

  The Hanging Tree.

  Even from here we can discern the four gibbets dangling from its branches. The metal cages contain the skeletal remains of the four brothers slain by the Sons of Cain, left to rot for an eternity.

  Scanning the cemetery, I can see no sign of the Sons of Cain or of the Hell Hounds. I breathe a sigh of relief, hoping that we might be able to make it to the Hanging Tree without incident. But then something massive stirs in the gloom over to the far right of the cemetery, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to bolt in fear.