The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Page 14

  As if in answer to Armand’s bold statement, a gunshot rings out. I turn and see the Son of Cain guide his mount out from behind a thick patch of mist only twenty yards away, a smoking pistol gripped in his hand.

  Witch Finder Blackwood slumps to his knees. He clutches his chest, then removes his hand to stare at his blood-stained palm. My eyes wide in disbelief, I watch, horrified, as the commander of the Angeli Mortis topples forward to lie face-down on the ground.

  All hell breaks loose.

  Holstering his pistol, the Warlock of Lower Slaughter draws his heavy broadsword and spurs his mount towards us. At the same moment, one of the Hell Hounds, alerted by the Son of Cain’s pistol shot, turns back from the tower and tears through the mist, coming straight for us.

  Whereas I cling to the branch, too afraid to move, Prayer drops from the tree. Rolling across the ground to break the impact of the fall, she leaps to her feet and darts over to stand guard before the Witch Finder, who lies motionless in an ever-widening pool of blood, the Malleus Maleficarum clasped in his outstretched hand.

  Von Frankenthal orders me to stay put and moves to guard Brother Lidcombe. But it’s Armand who leaves me gaping, for in an act that I can only describe as suicidal bravado, he races forward to intercept the Son of Cain.

  Stepping aside from the thundering hooves at the last moment, Armand deftly dodges the rider’s humming blade. In the same fluid motion, the Frenchman lashes out with his own arc of death, trying to take off the Son of Cain’s head with a savage back-slash of his mortuary blade. Missing his target by a mere inch, Armand comes to a grinding halt and stabs his mortuary blade in the ground. He snatches the pistol from his belt, spins on his heel, takes aim, and fires at the rider. At such close range, the damage inflicted by the pistol ball is devastating. It punches straight through the Son of Cain’s back to his chest, its exit point marked in the front of his buff coat by a small ragged hole that quickly pools with blood.

  But the Son of Cain doesn’t even flinch, riding forward to his target – which I only now realise is Brother Lidcombe; the only remaining member of our team qualified to deliver the last rites and break the unholy spell making the Sons of Cain invincible. Heaving back his broadsword in preparation to cleave the monk in two, the Son of Cain thunders towards his victim, who stands frozen in fear. Just as the rider draws within striking range of the monk, von Frankenthal – who has moved back several yards – gives a tremendous roar and charges, shoulder-first, into the mount’s right flank. Von Frankenthal’s heavy frame slams into the horse, almost dislodging the Son of Cain from his saddle. Abandoning his attack, the demonic rider struggles to keep his mount under control and pulls hard on the reins.

  Before the horse can regain its balance, von Frankenthal capitalises on his advantage by reaching down and grabbing its rear right leg. In a Herculean feat of strength, he lifts the leg off the ground and pushes with all of his might against the horse’s flank. The veins practically pop out of the witch hunter’s muscle-corded neck as he forces the horse to teeter. Turning his head to the side so as to avoid the heel of the Son of Cain’s kicking boot, von Frankenthal is able to make the horse lose its footing. It crashes heavily to the ground, but its rider somehow manages to leap free at the last moment. Before the Son of Cain can ready himself for combat, von Frankenthal clambers over the horse and dives at the fallen rider, crash-tackling him to the ground.

  Grabbing hold of the Son of Cain’s sword-arm, von Frankenthal wrestles atop his opponent. The witch hunter then slams his fist repeatedly into the rider’s face with bone-crunching force. After ten or so punches, von Frankenthal pauses to catch his breath. No sooner has he stopped than the Son of Cain snaps his head up to stare into von Frankenthal’s eyes, as if the witch hunter’s barrage of blows has had no effect at all. The Warlock of Lower Slaughter’s hand shoots out to lock around von Frankenthal’s throat. Struggling to breathe, von Frankenthal tries to pull away from the vice-like grip, but even he is not strong enough to break free. His face turning purple, the witch hunter reaches down to the fold in his boot, draws his dagger and plunges it – hilt-deep – into the Son of Cain’s torso. The demonic soldier lifts his head to stare down at the dagger embedded in his side and laughs sadistically. He looks back at von Frankenthal and continues to squeeze the life from him.

  Knowing that it will only be a matter of seconds before von Frankenthal is killed, I leap from the tree. I land awkwardly, grazing my shoulder against a tombstone and fumble at the hilt of my rapier, hoping to reach von Frankenthal in time to sever the hand locked around his neck. Before I can race over to the combatants, Armand collects his mortuary blade and streaks across to deliver a savage kick to the Son of Cain’s lower torso, forcing him to release his hold of von Frankenthal.

  No sooner has von Frankenthal staggered to his feet, gasping for air, than a massive grey form crashes into him and sends him flying for over twenty feet before tumbling across the ground in a tangled mess of flailing limbs. Dazed, von Frankenthal clambers to his feet. The Hell Hound carries on with its attack, tearing after the witch hunter and launching itself at him, its jaws open in preparation to rip him to shreds.

  I cry out in warning, but the situation is hopeless.

  This will be the end of von Frankenthal!

  Now only two yards away from von Frankenthal, the Hell Hound opens its jaws wider, targeting the witch hunter’s head. I race forward, my rapier drawn back, ready to drive it into the beast’s rear, yet knowing that I will never reach my friend in time.

  But then I come to a sudden halt as a bolt of blue lightning slams into the side of the beast, knocking it away from von Frankenthal and sending it crashing into a tomb. Smoke trailing from its scorched flank, the hound roars in pain and twists its head around, searching for the person responsible for the attack. Finally, it spots Prayer. The fire in its eyes blazing with rage, the beast advances slowly towards her.

  The English witch hunter is standing protectively in front of Witch Finder Blackwood, who still lies motionless on the ground. Having sheathed her rapier, she is reading from the opened pages of the Malleus Maleficarum, which she has prised from her fallen commander’s grasp. She is deep in concentration, preparing to cast another spell.

  Crouched on its haunches, the muscles in its rear legs bunched to spring into action, the hound stalks towards Prayer, who extends the fingertips of her outstretched hand. A bolt of rippling blue lightning shoots forth from her fingertips. But this time she misses; the beast darts to the side, the bolt of lightning shoots harmlessly off across the cemetery.

  With a speed that leaves me gaping, the Hell Hound suddenly springs forward, tearing across the cemetery towards Prayer, who reaches for the pistol tucked into her belt. Again I race forward, hoping to reach Prayer in time. I have only taken two steps when a shot rings out, hitting the beast in the side of the head and knocking it off its course.

  Looking in the direction of the gunshot, I spot Dorian atop the tower, smoke trailing from the rifle he has levelled at the beast. The remaining two hounds are nowhere to be seen, and I can only assume that they have raced inside the church and are trying to gain access to the tower.

  A demented roar draws my attention back to the Hell Hound in the cemetery. It shakes its head in pain, the fur below its right ear matted in blood, and continues advancing towards Prayer.

  Having tucked the Malleus Maleficarum under her belt and drawn her pistol, the English witch hunter is still standing by her fallen commander. Her lips drawn tightly in a savage snarl, no fear evident on her features, she yells something in English at the beast, her tone defiant, then takes aim with her pistol.

  Again, the Hell Hound comes at her, launching itself off its powerful rear legs, its jaws wide open. I cry out in warning. But Prayer refuses to move. Levelling her pistol at the beast, which is now only some three yards away, she fires. Her pistol ball hits one of the hound’s dagger-li
ke teeth, shattering it into a thousand shards, before carrying on into its gullet. The beast roars in pain, blood streaming from the sides of its blasted maw, but this time it doesn’t stop. My heart caught in my throat, I watch as the beast crosses the remaining distance to Prayer.

  Luckily, von Frankenthal intercepts it at the last moment. Having regained his senses, he charges into the beast. The hound’s jaws slam shut a hair’s breadth to the side of Prayer’s head, but the momentum of its attack knocks her off her feet and sends her sprawling on the ground near Witch Finder Blackwood.

  Drawing her rapier, she scrambles across the ground, her eyes locked on the beast, which comes at her again, its eyes ablaze. The beast’s jaws snap wildly, showering her in a mixture of blood and saliva. But von Frankenthal comes to her rescue again, wrapping his powerful arms around the hound’s throat in a choke-hold so tight that it could stop the flow of sap through the trunk of an ancient oak tree. His muscles knotting with the effort, he manages to restrain the hound, holding it away from Prayer, who scrambles back to safety and regains her feet. Von Frankenthal heaves with all his might, raising the beast’s head and exposing its torso to Prayer. She responds instantly, lunging forward with her rapier, its blade sinking hilt-deep into the hound’s chest and piercing its heart. Only a second later I join my companions and drive my own sword deep into the hound’s torso until only a hand-span of steel remains.

  The Hell Hound shudders violently and gives one final blood-curdling roar. It drops to the ground, convulsing in its death throes. Extracting our blades, Prayer and I step back from the hound, amazed that it is finally dead and look across at von Frankenthal. Physically drained, he staggers back from the beast, his chest heaving as he sucks in air.

  ‘Thank you,’ Prayer says to von Frankenthal and me. She smiles for the first time since we met her aboard the Royal Charles. ‘You saved my life.’

  Von Frankenthal waves a hand dismissively. ‘Think nothing of it. You did the same for me, using magic from the Malleus Maleficarum to distract the beast. But we’ve got a long way to go. That’s only two of the hounds taken care of – and we still have to deal with the Son of Cain.’

  I look around to where I had last seen the demonic rider over near the Hanging Tree. Brother Lidcombe has resumed delivering the last rites to the first set of remains freed from the gibbet. And, ten yards off to the Bishop’s right, Armand and the Warlock of Lower Slaughter are locked in a deadly duel.

  Armand is a master of a cosmopolitan fencing technique, combining elements of the French, Spanish and Italian schools of fencing. His body turned sideways so as to minimise the target presented to his opponent, he darts back and forth, his dual blades transformed into a maelstrom of steel.

  In direct contrast to Armand’s synchronised movements, the Son of Cain fights in a far more aggressive manner. His thrusts are delivered with less precision, but with a fury that could cleave a man in two, at times even wielding his heavy cavalry broadsword with both hands. Rather than tire, however, the Son of Cain only seems to become more enraged the longer the fight continues, his attacks becoming faster and more savage. He is also impervious to the wounds delivered by Armand’s snaking blades – a vicious slash across the neck and two puncture marks through the chest – and I fear that it will only be a matter of time before Armand is hit by one of the Son of Cain’s attacks.

  Noting Brother Lidcombe complete delivering the last rites to the first set of remains that had been inside the gibbet, I level my pistol – the one that Prince Rupert gave me – at the Son of Cain, awaiting an opportunity to help Armand. And I don’t have to wait long.

  As Armand ducks beneath a savage two-handed swipe intended to cleave his head clear from his shoulders, I take aim and fire, blasting the Son of Cain off his feet with a direct shot to the chest.

  ‘Well done!’ Armand commends, looking over his shoulder and noticing the smoking pistol in my hand. He steps back to catch his breath, and a victorious smile crosses his lips when he notices the second slain Hell Hound. ‘With any luck, we will get through this yet. But we need to free the remains in the last two gibbets. Jakob and Prayer, I need you to take care of that whilst von Frankenthal and I delay the Warlock. Brother – hurry up and administer the last rites. I’ve seen mass delivered faster than what it’s taking you to do this! We can’t kill the Son of Cain until you’ve broken the spell granting him unholy powers!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Brother Lidcombe stares fearfully at the Son of Cain and makes his way over to the second opened gibbet.

  ‘Then let’s end this,’ von Frankenthal snarls.

  Drawing his blade, he moves over to join Armand. Meanwhile, Prayer and I sheathe our swords, make our way over to the Hanging Tree and start to climb its trunk.

  Suddenly a blood-choked voice – so evil that it could herald the arrival of the Devil – calls out something in English, forcing us to freeze and turn to stare at the Son of Cain, who rises to his feet. Whereas Brother Lidcombe falls to his knees in terror, fumbling at the crucifix hanging from his neck, Armand takes a bold step towards the demonic soldier. The Frenchman snorts contemptuously, says something in return and slashes his sabre through the air in a defiant gesture.

  ‘What did the Son of Cain say?’ I ask Prayer, fearful of what she will tell me.

  ‘That he knows what we are trying to do, and that we shall fail. Despite our efforts, the Antichrist will be summoned. He also said that the world will know such pain and suffering that Heaven itself will shed tears of blood.’

  I swallow nervously. ‘And what did Armand reply?’

  Prayer shoots me a concerned look. ‘He said that he loves dancing in the rain.’

  Hoping that Armand’s response does not make the Son of Cain any angrier – if that is indeed possible – I scurry up the tree, Prayer following close behind me. We straddle the branches from which the remaining gibbets hang and make our way out, our daggers drawn in preparation to sever the ropes. And it’s then that a desperate cry for help, which I recognise instantly as Francesca’s voice, forces us to look towards the church, where one of the remaining Hell Hounds has climbed its way up to the tower, trapping Francesca and Dorian.

  ‘Armand!’ I call out, believing that they may be in need of our assistance and hoping he has some answer to our predicament.

  His eyes flashing in alarm, Armand takes a hesitant step towards the church. He is evidently torn between his promise to help Francesca and his need to keep the Son of Cain at bay for just a few minutes longer, which will grant us enough time to destroy the source of the demonic horseman’s power.

  ‘Jakob, carry on with the gibbets,’ he orders before pointing his mortuary blade at Brother Lidcombe. ‘And you had better get started on the Forsaken. Be quick about it. This has dragged on long enough.’

  ‘But what about Francesca and Dorian?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m sure they are capable of taking care of themselves for a while. Once we finish with the Hanging Tree, we’ll go to their . . .’

  Armand stops mid-sentence when the Son of Cain raises his hands, chants something in a diabolical language and casts a spell.

  At first nothing happens. I turn about fearfully, wondering how the Son of Cain’s spell will manifest itself. When I see that no demon has been summoned, I glance warily at my companions, fearing that one of them may have been possessed and turned into a pawn of evil. It’s only a second later that I catch movement in the corner of my eye. Uncertain of what I had seen, I stare hard at the tombstones over to my right, where I had caught the blur of movement.

  But the mist betrays no secrets.

  Thinking that it was a trick of my imagination, an illusion born from my own fears, I go to look back at the Son of Cain. But I catch myself when I see movement again, this time both to the left and right. Although unable to see what is out there, I can feel its presence: a palpable aura of evil that seeps
through my skin to freeze my heart with its ice-like touch. My companions also stare in the direction of the movement, dispelling any doubt that it is my imagination running wild. Armand, von Frankenthal and Brother Lidcombe then draw back to the Hanging Tree, the witch hunters forming a protective circle of steel around the ancient oak.

  ‘There’s . . . there’s something out there!’ Brother Lidcombe stammers, his entire form trembling.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath telling us something we already know,’ von Frankenthal growls. He scans the cemetery, trying to get a lock on whatever it is that is out there. ‘All I want to hear from you is the last rites being read to the Forsaken.’

  ‘Prayer,’ Armand calls out, refusing to take his eyes off the mist surrounding us, ‘can you cast a protective aura around us?’

  Prayer returns the dagger to her belt and produces the Malleus Maleficarum. ‘I can try.’

  Noticing that Brother Lidcombe has still not moved, Armand grabs him by the arm and directs him over to the second set of remains freed from the fallen gibbets. No sooner has the monk knelt down beside the iron cage than a ghost-like form materialises only a yard away from him. It comes out of nowhere, taking its form from the mist itself, catching even Armand by surprise. Its spectral, clawed hand rakes out of the gloom, slashing the monk deep across the throat.

  Armand’s sabre darts out at the spectral figure not even a heartbeat later, but it is too late – the ghost disappears back into the mist, the Frenchman’s sword humming harmlessly through the air. The next instant, Brother Lidcombe collapses on the ground, blood spraying from the gaping claw-marks across his throat.

  His blades held defensively before him, Armand turns around in a circle, ensuring that the ghostly figure has indeed withdrawn. He kneels down to inspect the monk, curses under his breath and moves warily back to the Hanging Tree.