The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Page 17

  Pausing only to pick up Armand’s rapier, we set off again. The faint light of the fuses tied to our swords guide us as we sprint along the tunnel, spurred by the enraged cries that echo from the darkness behind us. Onward we press, wheezing like punctured bellows, our mouths as dry as wrung-out dishcloths, until we reach the end of the tunnel.

  Finding a ladder leading up through a vertical shaft, we sheathe our blades and climb up. I follow behind Armand, who is forced to use his right elbow instead of his injured right hand. I kick down hard on each of the aged wooden rungs, snapping them off, preventing the Sons of Cain from coming after us. After having climbed some twenty feet, we reach the end of the shaft and push aside a stone slab. We scramble out, caked in enough dirt to fill a grave, and find ourselves standing in a shadowed alcove in the southern transept of the Church of the Holy Trinity.

  We push the stone slab back in place to seal the tunnel and sit back against the alcove wall, exhausted.

  ‘I can’t believe we made it back to the church,’ I say after a few minutes of rest.

  ‘I thought it was strange that the tunnel went for so long, but it now makes sense,’ Armand says, using water from his stoppered leather bag to clean his face. ‘I think the underground passage was made during the Civil War so that priests and possibly even their congregations could escape from bands of marauding soldiers should the church ever be attacked.’

  ‘Well, they say that the path to salvation is through the Church.’ I remove the now smoking length of cord from my rapier. Believing that this is only a moment of reprieve and that we are far from out of trouble just yet, I start to reload my pistols.

  Armand tests his right hand tentatively and winces in pain when he tries to bend his wrist.

  I look up from my pistols. ‘How is it?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s broken, but I’ve severely sprained it,’ Armand answers dismally. ‘It’s going to be a few days before I can wield a sword again with my right hand.’

  ‘Let this be a lesson to you that there are times when you cannot rely on your blades,’ I say, hoping that Armand takes heed of my words. ‘Even Captain Blodklutt, the most talented swordsman in our order, has his copy of the Malleus Maleficarum to fall back on. Sometimes all we can rely on is our own resourcefulness and the bond of friendship we share. That’s what gives us the edge over our enemies – the fact that we know we have one another.’

  ‘That,’ Armand smirks, holding up a finger to emphasise his point, ‘and the twenty-inch barrel of a cavalry pistol.’ He rubs his ear in jest, referring to when I fired past him to hit the Son of Cain who had him by the ankles. ‘But talking of relying on one another, we need to find out what has become of Francesca. The fact that this church is as silent as a grave does not bode well.’

  I nod grimly. ‘I was just thinking that. I was also wondering what has become of von Frankenthal and Prayer.’ I am fearful that they may have been cut down by the furies before reaching the church.

  Armand shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, but let’s first find out what’s happened to Francesca and Dorian. Then we can look for the others.’

  I load my pistols, then we climb to our feet and stalk through the shadows of the southern transept, scanning the church for evidence of our friends. We cross over to the opposite transept, and our hope sinks when we find the door to the tower ripped off its hinges. I position myself a yard or two behind Armand to cover our rear and follow the French duellist up the stairs, glancing warily over my shoulder every few yards. We try to move as silently as possible, but the faint, inadvertent scuffing of the soles of our boots across the worn stone steps resounds as loudly as cannons being fired – in my mind at least. Finding the trap door at the end of the stairwell smashed to pieces, we exchange a grim look. We are about to climb to the top of the tower when a series of three gunshots ring out in swift succession.

  Armand freezes, his eyes flashing with hope. ‘That had to have been the rifle you gave Dorian! No other firearm could be fired so quickly.’

  ‘And the shots came from outside the church – down where we left our mounts,’ I say.

  ‘If Dorian has survived, then there’s a good chance that Francesca might have too.’ Armand pushes past me and races down the winding stairwell four steps at a time.

  Praying that she is indeed still alive, I chase after Armand, my rapier readied for whatever horrors await us.

  We bolt out of the stairwell, tear through the church and burst out its front doors. Heading in the direction of the gunshots, we sprint down the hill, towards the copse of trees where we had tethered our mounts. It isn’t long before we find out what has become of Francesca.

  She and Dorian have somehow fought their way out of the church and made it down to our horses, all the while, apparently, hunted by the two remaining Hell Hounds. Armed with her talwar, Francesca is keeping one of the beasts at bay. Having positioned herself beside a tree to protect her rear, she wields her talwar in a two-handed grip, her crossbow slung over her back. She breathes heavily, the point of her sword held low to the ground, as if attempting to conserve energy. Despite her exhausted state, she does not appear to have been injured.

  Conversely, the Hell Hound – which is crouched on its haunches as it stalks to the left and right, searching for an opening in Francesca’s defences – is bleeding freely from several deep cuts, its fur matted with blood. Rather than have scared the beast away, these wounds seem to have only fed its rage, the fire in its eyes blazing.

  Dorian is facing the second Hell Hound, several yards deeper in the copse of trees, and is positioned protectively in front of our terrified mounts. His rapier is a humming streak of silver that leaves its signature as bleeding puncture wounds on the massive beast, which momentarily withdraws to yelp and lick its wounds. Like Francesca, Dorian does not appear to have been wounded, but his chest is heaving with each laboured breath. The white makeup on his face is blotched and streaked with sweat and dirt, which gives him the appearance of a revenant that has clawed its way out of a grave.

  And then – much to our surprise and relief – we see von Frankenthal and Prayer, who have almost fought their way down to Francesca and Dorian, but are now surrounded by the furies only thirty yards from the copse of trees. Standing back to back, they are engaged in a savage fight with the remaining furies. Only a dozen of the spectral hags remain, but both of our companions have been injured. Von Frankenthal’s back looks as if it has been subjected to a flogging: his cloak, tabard and shirt are shredded and wet with blood. Prayer, meanwhile, is sporting deep gashes across the left side of her face and is limping on her left foot.

  Armand tosses me his silver rapier in mid-stride and instructs me to go to the aid of von Frankenthal and Prayer. Drawing his mortuary blade, he races around the furies and makes a direct line for Francesca.

  Armed with my rapier and Witch Finder Blackwood’s blade, I tear into the furies from behind, slicing two of them in half and turning them to ash before they are even aware that I am upon them. Momentarily distracted by my attack, a number of the other furies snap their heads towards me. Both Prayer and von Frankenthal are quick to seize the advantage, their blades snaking out to take out a further three of the spectral hags, and clear a path for me to race over to join them.

  ‘Jakob! I can’t believe you’re alive,’ von Frankenthal exclaims. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I say, adding my blades to theirs to form a ring of steel. ‘I’ll tell you later. Let’s just get out of here first.’

  ‘I’m all for that.’ Prayer looks anxiously over her shoulder at Dorian, who is being attacked again by the Hell Hound. ‘Let’s finish this!’

  Prayer ducks a wild swipe at her head by one of the seven remaining furies, dives forward and rolls across the ground, drawing two of the spectral hags after her. Leaping to her feet, she pulls her head back sharply and recoils
from a second attack. She then lashes out, her dagger a flash of silver, severing one of the fury’s arms. Even before the detached limb turns to ash, Prayer delivers a back-hand slash across the fury’s throat, her blade moving faster than a shooting arrow to dispatch the spectral nightmare.

  The second fury to come after her weaves to the side, moves away from Prayer’s blade and rakes out its claws, intending to rip Prayer’s torso open. Catching the fury as a blur of movement in the corner of her eye, Prayer tries to dodge the attack. But she is not fast enough – the fury’s claws carve through her side like razors. Prayer cries out in pain, twists around to face the fury and lashes angrily with her dagger. The blade drives deep into the spectre’s chest, turning it to ash. Prayer moves from the fray and drops to her knees, inspecting the severity of her wound.

  Seeing her injured, von Frankenthal gives a tremendous roar and launches himself at the remaining furies, his dagger slashing wildly, tearing them apart. I follow after von Frankenthal, doing my best to cover his rear. But it’s as if my help is not needed, for in only a few seconds he carves through the spectres. He then staggers over to slump down beside Prayer and tends to her wounds. Having applied some salve from a phial tied to his belt, he starts to bandage her torso with strips of cloth torn from his cloak.

  I race over to join Armand, who has already engaged the Hell Hound attacking Francesca and has drawn it away by delivering a deep cut to its flank. My dual blades readied, I pull up beside Armand in a stance taught to me by the French duellist. But he pushes me away with a flick of his sword, as if he has the situation under control – or possibly, I find myself wondering, if he fears I lack the skill to face the beast and will only get in his way. Withdrawing from the fight, my blades still drawn, I watch him lure the beast after him.

  Although not fighting with his favoured hand, his wounded right hand held close to his chest, Armand is no stranger to wielding a blade in his left. Raising his mortuary sword above his head, he waits for the Hell Hound to pounce at him. He darts to his right the instant it attacks – the beast’s jaws slam shut a good two feet away from the French duellist. Before the injured hound can even twist its head around to set its blazing eyes on Armand, his blade comes down like a bolt of lightning, cleaving through flesh and bone, and severs the beast’s head clear from its body.

  ‘That’s one way to put an end to them,’ Armand mutters, already racing over to assist Dorian.

  I sheathe my rapier and draw one of my pistols, awaiting an opportunity to get off a shot at the remaining Hell Hound. Facing both Dorian and Armand, the already wounded beast doesn’t stand much of a chance. As Armand rushes in from the left, drawing the hound’s attention, Dorian weaves forward, driving his blade hilt-deep into its chest. Rising up on its rear legs, the Hell Hound howls in pain and thrashes its head about. Armand rushes in, plunging his blade deep into the hound’s lower torso. With a blood-gargled roar, it falls to the ground, its legs twitching like those of a dead man hanging from a gallows. Dorian produces a pistol from his belt, pins the beast’s head to the ground with his boot and shoots it at point-blank range, finally bringing an end to the last of the Hell Hounds.

  My breath coming in laboured gasps, I lower my weapons. ‘I can’t believe we slew them.’

  Armand extracts his blade from the hound and nods grimly. ‘We are lucky to have survived this fight. It could have ended badly.’ He flicks his mortuary sword free of blood, sheathes it by his side and walks over to Francesca.

  ‘That’s the first and last time I want to face a Hell Hound,’ she says, her voice trembling. Francesca’s blade is still raised, its point directed at the beast, as if she expects it to leap to its feet again.

  I join Armand and hand him Witch Finder Blackwood’s rapier, which he tucks under his right armpit. He then places his one good hand on Francesca’s and eases her blade down. ‘It’s over. The beasts are dead. There is no need to fear them any longer.’

  Francesca closes her eyes and exhales heavily. ‘And what of the Sons of Cain?’

  Armand shakes his head. ‘They were too strong for us. We only managed to destroy the satchel and deliver the last rites to one of the Forsaken. But we didn’t kill any of the Sons of Cain.’

  ‘Then it’s not over,’ Francesca says bluntly, her eyes snapping open. ‘And we should get out of here before they come after us.’ She looks gratefully at Armand. ‘I knew you’d come back for me. Thank you.’

  Smiling softly in return, Armand touches her gently on the cheek. She flinches initially, almost as if out of instinct. But she gradually succumbs to his caress, reaches up to hold his hand and closes her eyes.

  ‘Not even Hell’s legions could have stopped me,’ Armand whispers.

  ‘I’ll vouch for that,’ I comment. ‘I think the vow he made to you was the one thing that kept him going.’

  For a moment they stare into each other’s eyes. At length, Francesca clears her throat and jerks her chin at Dorian. ‘But I only made it off the church tower thanks to Dorian. He drew the beasts after him, allowing me to escape.’

  Dorian? I can hardly believe my ears. Perhaps I have misjudged him.

  Armand turns to the English witch hunter, who is cleaning his sword by the carcass of one of the dead Hell Hounds. ‘You did well. Your plan worked, luring the hounds away from the Hanging Tree.’

  Dorian scoffs contemptuously. He looks dismissively past Armand. ‘Where’s Witch Finder Blackwood?’

  Armand lowers his eyes respectfully. ‘He fell.’

  Dorian stares hard at Armand, his lips curled in distaste, as if he is about to make some curt comment, possibly blaming the Frenchman for the Witch Finder’s death. ‘You have his sword,’ he says, noticing the silver rapier tucked under Armand’s arm. He crosses over and extends a hand. ‘What is this? A free-for-all, where we scavenge what trophies we like from the dead? He would have wanted me to have that. Give it to me.’

  What? The English witch hunter had better be careful. One does not skate on such thin ice with Armand. He does not take affronts to his honour lightly.

  I realise that I have not misjudged Dorian. He is arrogant and self-centred, believing the world revolves around him only. It is interesting that he did not ask what had become of Brother Lidcombe. I’m sure he considered the monk expendable, reconfirming my belief that he cares little for anyone. I’m shocked, in fact, that he even asked about his commander. It may be that the only reason he assisted Francesca escape from the church is because he thinks she can serve some use in fighting the Sons of Cain. Perhaps he is also drawn to her because of her beauty, and believes he could win her over by saving her life. Good luck to him, I scoff. He’d have as much chance of winning her heart as the Catholic Church renouncing the Bible.

  Armand’s eyes flash with anger and he returns Dorian’s stare. Then, much to my surprise, he gives a cold smile and hands over the sword. Without even so much as a word of thank you, Dorian shoulders past Armand and walks over to inspect Prayer’s wounds. Having spent no more than a cursory ten seconds with her – during which Prayer’s initial smile fades to sadness – he crosses to the edge of the copse of trees, where he turns his back to us and starts to reload his rifles.

  With Witch Finder Blackwood now dead, I’m sure Armand has realised that it will be up to him to lead this team. He’s hardly going to be able to win the respect of the Angeli Mortis by taking offence at Dorian and driving a blade into his heart.

  Francesca notices the way in which the Frenchman is nursing his right arm. ‘You’re hurt. We have a few basic medical supplies in one of the saddle bags. You should let me have a look. And Christian and Prayer should come over here, too. It appears as if they have both sustained serious wounds.’

  ‘It will have to be fast,’ Armand says. ‘The Sons of Cain are still out there somewhere. We should get out of here whilst we still have the chance.’

  A
s Armand calls out to the others to assemble by the horses, I look up at the church, wondering what has become of the demonic horsemen. I get the scare of my life when I see three of them assembled on the crest of the hill to the left of the church, stationary on their black mounts, staring down at us.

  ‘The Sons of Cain are here!’ I call out, drawing my companions’ attention to the horsemen, who now spur their mounts down the hill and thunder towards us.

  ‘We’ll return down the track to the main road.’ Armand readies his horse and climbs into his saddle. ‘Then ride like Hell back to London.’

  Whilst the rest of us untie our mounts, swing into our saddles and ride out of the copse, Dorian remains standing by the edge of the trees; Prince Rupert’s rifle, now primed and loaded, gripped in his hands.

  ‘Dorian!’ Prayer yells, pulling hard on her reins. She steers her mount around and heads back towards her fellow English witch hunter. ‘What are you thinking? They cannot be killed!’

  As von Frankenthal calls out after Prayer and turns his horse after her, Dorian raises his rifle and takes aim at the Sons of Cain. ‘We may not be able to kill the riders,’ he says coolly, his eyes narrowing as he stares down the rifle’s massive barrel, singling out Nils Fabricius, the closest of the horsemen, ‘but we can stop them from following us.’

  BLAM! Dorian takes his first shot, taking the horse out from under the rider, who crashes heavily to the ground. Rotating the rifle’s chamber and thumbing back the firing pin, an action that takes no more than two seconds to complete, Dorian brings the rifle back up to his shoulder and fires. This time Thomas Whitcliff comes crashing down, flying over the head of his dead horse. Then, having reloaded the final chamber of the rifle, Dorian levels the firearm at the remaining Son of Cain – Alistair McClodden.

  Turning his horse sharply to the left just as Dorian shoots, the rifle ball whizzes past the Scotsman’s mount and brushes through its flying mane. Now only forty yards away from us, the massive Scotsman draws his claymore, locks his eyes onto Dorian and thunders towards him.