The Witch Hunter Chronicles 2 Page 2

  Not long has passed before I catch movement in the corner of my eye. What’s this? The gravedigger? Moving through the moonlight over to my right, returning so soon? Don’t tell me he’s lost his way.

  I’m about to rise from behind the tombstone to berate him for not finding the nightwatchmen, when I catch myself. A cold chill races across my skin as I realise that it’s not the gravedigger.

  Wilhelm shifts back further behind his tombstone and signals for me to do likewise. Then, from our concealed positions, we watch the mysterious figure lumber through the darkness, drawing closer, allowing us to get a better look at them.

  It is a man, wrapped in a cloak, and dragging a shovel. He is making awkward lurching movements, as if his limbs have been dislocated. Then, when his head lolls to the side and moonlight falls across his face, I see that his skin is the deathly-white pallor of a corpse, and his eyes are lifeless orbs.

  I notice Wilhelm place his rapier on the ground and flex the fingers of his sword-arm in preparation for combat. He then makes the sign of the cross, retrieves his blade and whispers, ‘It is an animated corpse – one of the undead!’

  Staring wide-eyed at the abomination, I only now realise that there is a second figure, drifting through the darkness some ten yards behind the undead corpse, wrapped in the folds of a black, hooded robe, and moving with such stealth that it appears to be floating through the cemetery. It follows the undead corpse to Andreas’s grave, then draws back its hood.

  I recoil in horror, for the second figure is not human either.

  Its skin has the same deathly pallor as its undead companion, and its face is horribly mutilated, the features scarred and burned. In place of a nose it has two small slits, like gills, set flush against its face, and its mouth is bristled with jagged teeth. Beneath the strands of shoulder-length white hair is a pair of narrow, blood-red eyes, which glow in the darkness and scan the cemetery, searching for evidence of movement.

  Barely daring to breathe for fear of being detected, I follow Wilhelm’s lead and crouch further behind the tombstone. After what seems to be an eternity, the stranger turns back to its undead companion, points at Andreas’s grave, and issues a command in a strange, hellish language. Its deep, grinding voice sounds like a sarcophagus lid being dragged aside. The undead henchman starts to dig.

  The robed figure is so focused on the task at hand that I’m sure I could sneak right up behind it and place my pistol against the back of its head. But as much as I am inclined to do that, caution warns me that it’s more prudent to wait for the gravedigger to return with the nightwatchmen.

  There’s safety in numbers, particularly when facing what is undoubtedly a supernatural enemy. It’s a shame that Wilhelm doesn’t think so.

  He must be ardent for fame and glory to arrest the stranger single-handedly. Either that, or he is overconfident in his abilities to wield a blade. For why else would he rise from his place of concealment, point his rapier at the robed stranger, call for it to place its hands above its head, and order its henchman to stop digging?

  Just because Wilhelm has betrayed his element of surprise, doesn’t mean that I’m going to follow suit. Neither the robed stranger nor its minion have seen me, and I intend to keep it that way. If I stay hidden, I still might be able to salvage some element of surprise and catch them off-guard. And so I remain crouched in the darkness, peering from behind the tombstone.

  There’s a moment of silence as the stranger freezes. Without even bothering to turn around, it says something in the same unknown tongue it used before, and the undead henchman sets its lifeless eyes on Wilhelm. It then lumbers towards him, its shovel raised in preparation to club him to death.

  ‘Do you think an undead minion can kill a witch hunter? Wilhelm snarls, flipping his main gauche and catching it by the blade. He draws the dagger behind his head, takes a swift step forward, and throws it at the undead.

  The slim-bladed dagger, its blade engraved with holy passages, hums through the air to thud, hilt-deep, into the undead’s chest. Knocked off its feet by the force of the impact, it writhes on the ground, clutching at the dagger, crying out in a terrible, guttural moan. After a few seconds, it finally dies.

  Wilhelm grins victoriously. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘Your confidence will be your undoing, mortal,’ the robed stranger says in a voice so deep and foreboding it sounds as if it is rising from the very bowels of Hell.

  It reaches into a fold of its robe and draws a blade – the likes of which I have never seen before. It appears to be a medieval broadsword, double-edged and cumbersome. Runes are etched along the length of the blade glowing in a soft, red light, like coals that have just been stirred in a fire.

  The stranger turns, slowly, almost mechanically, and sets its blood-red gaze on Wilhelm. I feel my stomach knot in terror, for there is no fear in the stranger’s eyes – no sign of alarm that it has been caught in the act of exhuming a grave, nor that Wilhelm had so easily slain its undead minion. Just a sadistic sneer guaranteed to send even the Devil’s hordes running.

  As if the situation could not get any worse, the stranger utters a strange command, and Wilhelm appears seized by fear. His sword-arm starts to tremble, and his feet seem to be rooted to the spot. But I cannot come to his aid. Not just yet, for to do so would give away my position. I’d get us both killed. All I can do is wait for a window of opportunity to present itself. And when it does, I pray that the window doesn’t come crashing down on my head just as I’m about to climb through.

  The stranger crosses over to Wilhelm. It draws back its heavy blade in preparation to cleave the Hexenjäger’s head clear from his shoulders. But it seems all Wilhelm can do is stare at the blade – at his impending doom.

  I raise my flintlock pistol, stare down the barrel, take aim at the stranger’s heart, and squeeze the trigger. There’s a flash of powder and the report of my firearm, deafening in the still of the night. This is followed by a cry of demented rage as the stranger takes the shot in the chest. It staggers back, clutching a hand at the wound, then removes it and stares in morbid curiosity at its blood-stained palm. Its eyes blazing with rage, it then hoists its blade behind its back in a two-handed grip. I watch helplessly as the heavy blade slices through the air.

  There’s a gargled cry, a spray of blood, and a sickening thump as Wilhelm’s headless body slumps to the ground.

  Time freezes.

  Aghast, I stare at Wilhelm’s lifeless form, the terrible final seconds of his life replaying in my mind. Wilhelm was a veteran witch hunter. How could he have been slain with such ease? And why hadn’t my pistol killed the stranger? It was a direct hit, straight to the heart. But I snap back to reality the instant the stranger comes towards me.

  Tossing aside my pistol, I leap to my feet, both rapiers drawn. Without even having time to contemplate a plan of action, I find myself lunging forward, thrusting my Pappenheimer at the stranger’s chest. To my surprise, the stranger makes no attempt to parry my attack, and my blade drives deep into its torso. It convulses against the steel and gives a blood-choked roar. But I catch myself when the stranger stops convulsing, looks down at the blade embedded in its chest, and regards it with the same morbid curiosity with which it had considered the pistol-wound.

  How can that be possible? We are in a cemetery, on hallowed ground, meaning that this malevolent being should be stripped of its powers. And my weapons – even every pistol ball I carry – have been consecrated by a priest and blessed with holy water. My weapons should be able to kill the stranger!

  Realising the situation is hopeless, I extract my blade and attempt to flee, but one of its hands shoots out. It locks onto my neck like a vice, so tight it’s a miracle my windpipe isn’t crushed. Then, to my horror, the stranger lifts me off the ground. It holds me dangling in the air, like a gutted pig hanging from a hook in a butcher’s shop. Dropping its
sword, the stranger grabs my right hand by the wrist and forces me to raise my Pappenheimer rapier.

  ‘Caelitus mihi vices – My strength is from heaven,’ it says in a deep, mocking tone, reading the inscription engraved on the blade. Its eyes then bore into mine. ‘Where is your God now, mortal? Why doesn’t He come to save you? You should have run when you had the chance. Now you will pay for your stupidity with your life.’

  Struggling to breathe, I try to wrestle free. But it’s useless. All I can do is stare helplessly into the stranger’s blood-red eyes. It’s not long before I feel myself sliding into death’s cold embrace. Darkness starts to take me.

  It’s strange, but I think I can hear distant voices. Perhaps it’s angels coming to greet me. Or – knowing my luck – a pack of demons leering at me from Hell.

  Taking what must be my last breath, my blades fall from my fingers and I cross myself. Then I slip into complete darkness.

  Darkness fades to the hazy awareness of semi-consciousness. I stir, only to become aware of a blinding pain in my throat. It feels as though I’ve swallowed hot coals. I squeeze air into my lungs, but it’s difficult to breathe, almost as if I have a weight of bricks lying across my chest.

  It’s only when I try to push myself up onto a shoulder that I realise there actually is something lying across my chest. But it’s not bricks. Reaching down in the darkness, I feel a mess of matted hair, slick with . . . warm blood.

  What?

  A sudden jolt of awareness pulls me out of the misty greyness of semi-consciousness. Pushing the body off me, I scramble desperately across the ground, only to find that the graveyard is now littered with the dead. In the ghostly light cast by the moon, I see there are bodies everywhere. Many are so twisted and mangled it’s hard to believe that they were once living, breathing humans.

  There’s a corpse just over to my right, slumped over a tombstone. Its eyes stare lifelessly at me. A cold shudder races up my spine as I recognise the face as that belonging to the gravedigger.

  Some time passes before I manage to pry my stare away from the bloodied mess. My heart is racing, and my hands start to shake uncontrollably. Having ventured through Schloss Kriegsberg, I’m no stranger to the sight of death. But, staring at the gravedigger – whom I’d only met this evening – I’m filled with a terrible awareness of my own mortality.

  And it’s only now that I begin to understand what has happened. The gravedigger had obviously returned with the nightwatchmen. This is evident by the brown doublets, bearing sword insignias, worn by the bodies now littering the cemetery. That would explain the voices I heard when I was being attacked by the stranger. The watchmen must have arrived just in the nick of time, distracting the stranger – who had obviously tossed me aside, believing me to be dead. It must have torn into them like a wolf into a flock of lambs.

  I’m about to rise to my feet when I hear the stranger’s foreboding voice.

  I stare wide-eyed into the darkness over to my right, where, illuminated in the ghostly moonlight, the stranger is leaning over the exhumed corpse of Andreas Rundst, drawing him close by his funeral shroud and chanting an unholy incantation.

  Terrified of being spotted, I remain frozen where I lie, too afraid to even breathe. Almost a minute passes before the stranger finishes the incantation. Then it draws Andreas’s corpse close and demands, ‘Where is what I seek? Where lies the Tablet of Breaking?’

  I blink back against the final vestiges of misty greyness still blurring my vision. My eyes must be deceiving me. Andreas Rundst is dead. How can the stranger expect to extract an answer from a corpse?

  But then I catch myself. For Andreas’s eyes open!

  My blood turns to ice. It finally dawns on me – the stranger possesses the dark art of necromancy. It can raise the dead!

  Being a novice witch hunter, I am not an expert on the diabolical practice of necromancy. One thing I do know is that only the most powerful of witches and warlocks may master the art. I also know that a raised corpse becomes its master’s pawn. It must obey the necromancer’s every command. That means Andreas is going to have no option but to reveal the secret that could bring about Armageddon.

  And I’m the only person in the whole world who can stop this from happening.

  Fighting back my fear, I try to force myself up onto a shoulder and draw the second pistol tucked into my belt. But I’m weaker than I thought. The effort is too great, leaving me lying on my back, panting for air. The stranger’s touch must have drained me. I can feel myself losing consciousness, slipping back into darkness.

  But I can’t let this happen. Not just yet. Not until I have heard Andreas’s secret – not until I know where the Tablet of Breaking is located. If I can manage that, then the Hexenjäger will have a chance of finding the device before the stranger. Once in our possession, we will be able to safeguard the Tablet, ensuring that it never falls into the wrong hands.

  And so I lie in the darkness, struggling to remain conscious, knowing that the fate of the world rests on my shoulders.

  The events of the past week have gone by so quickly they have left my head in a spin. The last thing I remember of that terrible night is hearing the secret extracted from Andreas Rundst’s reanimated corpse. Afterwards I must have passed out.

  As luck would have it, I was rescued from the cemetery by a Hexenjäger patrol the morning after the encounter. Alarmed that Wilhelm, the gravedigger and I had not returned from our midnight expedition, the local parish priest had sent word to a Hexenjäger patrol, which, fortunately, happened to be passing through the area. They found me lying unconscious, my features deathly pale, and brought me back to Burg Grimmheim. Having regained consciousness the following morning, I spent the next two days in the infirmary, during which I was subjected to what seemed like a million questions from the leaders of my military order concerning the events that had transpired in the cemetery.

  I have no idea who the white-skinned stranger was. But it has certainly drawn the attention of my superiors. Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel, the head of our order, must have questioned me for hours about the stranger’s appearance. He was also curious about Andreas Rundst, and insisted that I relate all that I knew about him. It appears as if the Hexenjäger had never before heard of the man, which is not surprising, considering that his fame had been largely confined to the city of Dresden. Outside of the Church officials sent to investigate the case, Father Callumbro, my uncle and I were the only people who knew of his vision of the end of the world and the Tablet of Breaking. The Hexenjäger certainly weren’t aware of the secret he carried, nor that he had only recently been buried in the cemetery. It appears as if I had been sent on a routine mission, only to stumble across a situation of the greatest gravity.

  As I informed the Grand Hexenjäger of the Tablet of Breaking and its purpose, his face drained of colour. Then, when I whispered into his ear the words that I had heard extracted from Andreas’s lips – the words that revealed the secret resting place of the Tablet of Breaking – his eyes flashed in alarm. Having warned me that I was not to speak of this to anybody, he left the infirmary, his stride urgent, as if he had matters to deal with of the utmost importance.

  That was five days ago, and I am only now seeing him again, having been summoned to his office for a meeting with some of the most important and powerful people in the Holy Roman Empire.

  Sitting directly opposite me is Ferdinand Reichsfreiherr von Fürstenberg, Bishop of Paderborn. He has a face pockmarked by acne and features creased with age. But with age comes experience; he has climbed so high in the ranks of the Church that he has more influence over the Pope than any man alive. It is said that nothing transpires in the Vatican without his consent.

  As if Ferdinand Reichsfreiherr von Fürstenberg isn’t intimidating enough, to his left sits one of the most feared men in the Holy Roman Empire, Justus Blad, the Witch Bishop of Aachen. He watc
hes everything with a pair of bloodshot eyes that stab into your very soul. One of the Inquisition’s most fervent zealots, he has sent hundreds of accused heretics and witches to be burned alive at the stake. If my memory serves me correctly, the Witch Bishop of Aachen had also been one of the Church officials sent to Dresden nine years ago to investigate Andreas Rundst’s visions.

  Next around the table is an elderly man with grey wisps of hair combed across his head. He is introduced as Lothar Liebknecht, a Professor of Antiquity at the University of Paderborn. He has an imperious look about him, as if he considers anyone who doesn’t hold a university degree not worth the time of day.

  Next in line is Jens Taaffe, Professor of Archaeology at the Ruprecht Karls University in Heidelberg, Germany’s oldest university. He has a brusque manner and eyes that dart around the room. He is accompanied by his windswept and unshaven assistant, Hans Wallenstein. In his mid-thirties, Hans looks as if he’d be right at home when digging around in archaeological sites.

  Sitting to my left is Grand Hexenjäger Wrangel, his usually calm eyes framed by dark rings, indicating he has had troubled sleep over the past few nights. There’s also an uncharacteristic apprehension about him, as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair and toys with his moustache.

  Then there is Friedrich Geist, head of the Milites Christi – a Catholic military order responsible for the internal security of the Vatican. He looks like something Hell spat out. His dark apparel – comprising a black leather doublet, breeches, hose, cloak and hat – are practical and functional, void of any trim or lace that could impede the draw of a blade. His unshaven jaw, framing a mouth that smiles as regularly as an atheist gives confession, and his brooding, bloodshot stare are trademark features of a professional soldier who has dedicated his life to war and filled his share of graves. Not surprisingly, he is decked out with enough weapons to equip a small army.