The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Read online

  Armand stares at me blankly and swallows nervously. He raises the glowing length of cord wrapped around his sword. Dreading what we are about to find, we inspect our surroundings.

  The tomb is some twelve feet wide but stretches back for over twenty yards, where it gives access to two closed doors, set in opposite sides of the chamber. In its centre, lying perpendicular to the long side walls, are four stone caskets, their lids removed. A four-foot-tall crucifix hangs on a wall, its wooden beams pockmarked by dozens of small holes that resemble pistol-shot impact craters, suggesting the crucifix has been used for target practice. The air is a pungent mixture of dust and death, as if there is something rotting within or behind the caskets. Strangely, a fresh pile of horse dung lies only a yard off to the left.

  ‘I have a very bad feeling about this,’ Armand whispers, his eyes locked on the caskets. ‘I’m going to have a quick look around. Stay here and guard the door.’

  I reach out and grab Armand by the sleeve. ‘Are you up to this? Only a minute ago you were questioning if you had the strength to walk. Let me do it.’

  Armand smiles at my concern. ‘The pain in my head is subsiding, and I can still use my left hand. I’ll be fine. Now make sure that nothing comes through that door.’

  A terrible nervousness welling in my stomach, I brace my back against the door and watch Armand stalk down the tomb, his blade held before him, warding back the darkness with the wan light of the lit cord. Creeping stealthily towards the first casket, he draws back his rapier in preparation to thrust it into whatever might lie within. I watch with bated breath as he leans over the casket, expecting a corpse-like hand to spring out at any moment.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when Armand lowers his blade. Perhaps we have worried unnecessarily, the tomb being home to nothing more than horrors conjured by our own imaginations. But then I catch myself – the cold hand of fear squeezing my heart – as Armand whips up his rapier and recoils abruptly from the second casket.

  The point of his blade aimed at the stone coffin, he quickly walks backwards to join me. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he whispers, refusing to take his eyes off the casket. ‘One of the Sons of Cain is lying in the second casket, and I’m sure we’ll find the other two in the remaining coffins.’ He turns to me. ‘We’ve discovered their lair.’

  I look down at the floor in despair, only now realising that the sandstone slabs are covered in what appears to be drops of dried blood. Following my gaze, Armand reads the telltale signs of passage left by what we can only assume are the Sons of Cain’s bleeding eyes.

  I look up at Armand. ‘What are we going to do?’ I whisper.

  Armand shakes his head, his expression grim. ‘Death awaits us outside.’ He clicks his tongue softly in thought and observes the far side of the tomb. ‘We need to see what’s behind those two doors. One must lead to where the Sons of Cain have their mounts stalled, judging from the fact that there is a fresh pile of dung just over there. I also noticed several dried clods down past the caskets and got a waft of manure and hay. I’m hoping that the second door might provide access to another exit from the tomb.’

  My eyes narrow in question. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It’s not uncommon for tombs to have a rear escape passage, in the off-chance that someone was entombed alive and woke to find that the front door was locked.’

  Entombed alive. That’s exactly how I feel right now – trapped in the darkness with little chance of escape. We have been in perilous situations in the past, but we have always been able to rely on Armand’s sword-fighting skills to save us. Now the Frenchman has injured his primary sword-arm. Our only hope lies in one of the doors at the rear of the tomb leading to a way out.

  ‘Then let’s do this before the Sons of Cain awake,’ I whisper, my stomach churning in nervous anticipation of having to sneak past the caskets.

  I remove my shoulder tentatively from the door, testing that it is not being pushed from the other side, and produce my remaining pistol with my free hand. I’m not sure what use my rapier and pistol will be in a fight against the Sons of Cain, but I take strength in knowing that they have been blessed by the Church, reminding me that we are champions of Christ and that He watches over us.

  Praying that the dagger I wedged beneath the door will be enough to prevent it from being opened, I follow after Armand. We creep cautiously down the tomb, keeping close to the right-hand wall, shying away from the caskets. Wary of making even the slightest of noises, we take each step with extreme care on the stone floor so as to avoid betraying our presence. Like Armand, I use my cloak to shield the light of the lit cord away from the sleeping Sons of Cain.

  It seems to take an eternity before we reach the far end of the tomb. I wipe the sweat from my brow and follow Armand over to the door set in the opposite wall. Having handed me his rapier, Armand tries the handle. He looks back at me and winks encouragingly when it turns without making a sound. When he pushes against the door, however, its rusted metal hinges make a high-pitched creak.

  Wincing, our hearts pounding, we stare anxiously at the caskets, expecting the Sons of Cain to rise. Pools of sweat form on the palms of my hands. I stare back at the stone coffins, too afraid to even breathe. Saying a silent prayer when nothing stirs from within, I turn to Armand and shake my head as a warning to be more cautious.

  Raising his good hand to indicate that I have nothing to worry about, Armand pushes the door open a further six inches, this time being careful not to make a sound. I hand him back his rapier, and he raises the lit cord to reveal the chamber that lies beyond.

  The room is roughly the same dimensions as the one in which we are presently standing, but with a major difference: it has been converted into a makeshift stable. Three sleeping mounts, as black as the Devil’s soul, are tethered to metal rings set along the walls. Six lidless caskets, of similar design to the ones in which the Sons of Cain are sleeping, are arranged in a row in the centre of the former tomb, serving as water and food troughs. Saddles, harnesses, coils of rope and sacks of supplies and food are piled in the far left corner of the chamber, illuminated by a lantern hanging from the wall.

  Armand closes the door gently, wary of disturbing the mounts. ‘Well, we’re not getting out that way, are we?’ he whispers. ‘We’ve got one last chance. Let’s hope the second door offers us a way out of here. If not, we’ll have no option but to go back out the way we came in.’

  I shudder at the mere mention of this. That would mean facing the Warlock of Lower Slaughter again, and I’m looking forward to that as much as volunteering to be a test subject for the Inquisition’s latest torture devices.

  ‘Come on.’ Armand gestures with his sword for me to follow him across to the remaining door.

  We creep stealthily across the tomb. It’s just as Armand is about to open the second door that we freeze, our hopes of escaping the tomb suddenly dashed. For three consecutive clangs resound against the tomb’s metal entry door, as if the pommel of a sword is being hammered against it from outside. In the confined space of the tomb, the sound resonates like a church bell being rung.

  I stare fearfully at the caskets, my blood turning to ice.

  The Sons of Cain are sitting upright in their stone coffins and lock the bloody pools of their eyes on us.

  ‘Move!’ Armand yells, positioning himself protectively in front of me. ‘Get out of here. I’ll be only a step behind you.’

  Opening the door, I race through into the darkness beyond, Armand shadowing my every move. I glance back and see the three Sons of Cain climb out of their caskets and reach for their swords.

  One of the demonic soldiers is Thomas Whitcliff, identifiable by his chest-plate and tri-bar pot helmet. A pair of long-barrelled cavalry pistols is tucked into his belt.

  The Son of Cain to his left is evidently the Swedish slayer, Nils Fabricius. He is clad in a dark clo
ak, black leather gloves and a wide-brimmed hat. His blade is an English swept-hilt rapier, its ovoid pommel adorned with a ruby.

  The remaining Son of Cain is their leader, Alistair McClodden, the Demon of Moray Firth. He is a giant, standing over a foot taller than his minions. He has flaming red hair that falls past his shoulders, and is wearing a battle-scarred leather buff coat and a kilt. His primary weapon is a massive, two-handed Scottish claymore, which he draws from the scabbard strapped across his back. He points the blade at us and roars a command. The next instant, his two companions heave back their swords and tear after us.

  Armand and I barely have time to close the door and brace our shoulders against it before the Sons of Cain slam into it. The door shudders, the rusted nails holding its hinges in place are almost torn free from the frame, but it doesn’t break. I look desperately over my shoulder, searching for some means of barricading the door, and notice that we have entered a narrow passageway. It is barely one yard wide and only six feet high, dug through the rock and earth beneath the cemetery, and stretches away into darkness. Like a mine, its ceiling is comprised of slabs of wood, propped in place at regular intervals by heavy upright wooden beams. Hundreds of cobwebs stretch from one side of the tunnel to the other, and the air is stale, suggesting the passageway has not been disturbed in many years. I can find nothing, however, that will be of any use in bolstering the door.

  ‘Get ready!’ Armand warns, hearing a rush of movement coming from inside the crypt.

  No sooner has he said this than we hear the swoop of a descending blade. We step back instinctively just as one of the Sons of Cain’s sword smashes through the door, showering us in splinters of wood, and stops only when it hits a metal crosspiece. Barely a second after the blade is wrenched free, one of the Sons of Cain kicks the door in, knocking Armand and me to the ground.

  We scramble to our feet and duck beneath a savage swipe from Thomas Whitcliff. His broadsword hums through the air an inch above our heads and thuds into one of the tunnel’s upright wooden support beams, which showers us in a cloud of dirt and dust. Unable to wrench his blade free, the Son of Cain places a foot against the wall and pulls with all his might, blocking his companions from coming after us. Seizing the advantage, Armand shoves me down the tunnel and sprints after me. Praying that the passage is indeed an escape route, my blade raised to shield me from the spider webs, I tear through the darkness.

  We race as fast as we dare along the tunnel, ducking and weaving past the projecting wooden support beams. Some of them creak precariously as we inadvertently knock them, as if they might come crashing down, burying us beneath a tonne of earth and rock. But we carry on regardless, determined to put as much distance as possible between us and the Sons of Cain. We can hear them chasing after us, the spurs on their knee-length cavalry boots clanging with each step across the stone and earth floor. Their cries and curses reverberate along the passage, giving the impression that they are only a yard behind us. Every time I pay a terrified glance over my shoulder, all I see behind Armand is an empty stretch of tunnel, giving me hope that we may somehow survive this nightmare.

  I’m not sure how far we have run – it must be close to fifty yards – when I come to an abrupt halt, my hope of escaping sinking faster than an anchor.

  ‘We are done for!’ I moan. ‘What are we going to do now?’

  Armand pulls up behind me, staring over my shoulder at the collapsed section of tunnel blocking our path.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, nursing his injured right arm, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. ‘But we’d better think of something fast, because in a few seconds the Sons of Cain are going to catch us. Then we’ll have no option but to face them. And with my hand out of action, I don’t think I need to tell you how that will end.’

  I move forward to inspect the collapsed section of tunnel and notice that there is a narrow gap between the roof and the pile of rubble. It is wide enough for me to stick the hilt of my sword in and illuminate the space with my lit length of cord, revealing that the fallen section of roof only extends for some two yards. Beyond that, the tunnel continues.

  ‘We can still escape, provided we can dig through to the other side,’ I say hopefully.

  Armand shakes his head. ‘But we won’t have time to do that.’

  ‘Then we need to buy ourselves the time,’ I say. ‘We have to stop the Sons of Cain from reaching us, to give us enough time to make it through.’

  ‘And how do you plan on doing that?’ Armand stares defiantly back down the tunnel. He flicks his cloak free from his left arm so that it won’t interfere with his rapier. ‘Unless we can bring down the tunnel, I don’t see how we are going to do it.’

  ‘That’s it!’ I race back down the passage, studying the wooden beams that support the ceiling, searching for a weak spot. ‘I don’t think this tunnel is very stable. All it might take is a good kick to one of the beams to bring down a section of the roof.’

  ‘But how do you know it won’t bring down the entire roof?’ Armand calls after me.

  ‘I don’t.’ I lead Armand to what appears to be an unstable section of the tunnel. Dirt falls between the creaking wooden beams holding up the roof, as if they will give way at any moment. ‘But I can’t see any other way out this.’

  Armand shakes his head sceptically. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Look what happened the last time we tried doing it.’

  ‘But we were using gunpowder back then,’ I point out, my mind flashing back to the prisons beneath Rotterdam. ‘This should be a lot safer.’

  No sooner have I said this than the Sons of Cain appear at the edge of the perimeter of light cast by our lit lengths of cord. They are crouched low so as to avoid hitting their heads, their swords held menacingly before them. Then, as the leading demonic soldier produces a pistol from his belt and takes aim at me, I deliver a kick with the heel of my boot at one of the wooden columns holding up the roof – instantly causing a cave-in.

  I barely have time to dive back before a section of the roof collapses and crashes down with incredible force. A massive pile of earth and rubble fills the tunnel from floor to ceiling, preventing the Sons of Cain from coming after us. Coughing and wheezing, I cover my mouth with my sleeve and shut my eyes tightly against the dust and dirt as I crawl along the ground. Finally Armand drags me to safety.

  ‘That was one of the most dangerous things I’ve ever seen you do,’ he says, sitting me against the tunnel wall and making me drink from his water-skin. ‘But it worked. I’ve always thought that our Lord has a soft spot for you. Now I’ve got no doubt at all.’

  ‘Soft spot or not, I think it will be a long time before I try doing that again,’ I say, thankful that the liquid is clearing my throat, allowing me to breathe once more. Dusting myself off, I look back through the settling cloud of dirt at the mound of rubble. ‘But that should buy us the time we need to dig through to the other side.’ I hand back the water-skin and climb to my feet. ‘Come on, let’s get started.’

  We have barely walked back to the collapsed section of tunnel when Armand raises a hand in warning. Stopping dead in our tracks, we turn to look back down the passage, where we can hear the Sons of Cain digging their way through the rubble.

  ‘Don’t they ever give up?’ I whisper, my adrenaline pumping, knowing that it has now become a race to see who can dig through their section of collapsed tunnel the fastest.

  Armand leans his blade against the wall and wastes no time in removing the earth and rocks with his good hand, attempting to enlarge the gap beneath the ceiling. ‘We only need to make this wide enough for us to crawl through. It shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘Let’s just hope that we can beat the Sons of Cain,’ I mutter. I drop my weapons and join Armand, using both hands to scoop away the earth.

  We dig frantically for several minutes until we are caked in a sick mixture of s
weat and dirt. Armand, finding the narrow tunnel too cramped and evidently noticing that I am a more efficient digger since I’m not injured, moves back and allows me to crawl forward on my chest. Scooping the earth back behind me, I make quick progress, and it isn’t long until I make it through to the other side.

  Armand passes me our weapons, and I offer him a hand and start to pull him through. Halfway through the hole he suddenly stops and stares at me with terror-filled eyes. The next instant, he is ripped free from my grip and dragged back.

  Snatching up my pistol and rapier, I lift the length of lit cord attached to my blade to reveal that Armand has used his elbows to wedge himself in the hole. He is trying desperately to kick himself free from Thomas Whitcliff, who has grabbed hold of his ankles.

  Yelling out to Armand to stay still, I raise my pistol, take aim past the Frenchman and level my barrel at the Son of Cain, whose blood-filled eyes lock onto mine, his features set in a malevolent sneer.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Armand tries to shift as far away as possible from my pistol. He squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation of the BLAM! from the firearm, which is only a few inches away from his head.

  ‘Trust me,’ I say, firmly believing that I can make the shot and taking aim down the barrel. ‘Just don’t move.’

  ‘You hardly need to tell me . . .’

  I blast away, knocking Whitcliff off his feet with a direct shot to the head, just below the visor of his helmet. I reach into the hole, grab hold of Armand and drag him through to safety.