The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Read online

  The next instant, there is a massive KABOOM! from just outside the chapel, and the walls and floor vibrate. Distracted, wondering what on earth has just happened, I catch movement in the corner of my eye and duck as razor-like fingers tear out of the gloom and slice through the air only an inch above my head. I slash out wildly with my blade, cleaving the fury in half and turning it to ash. I carry through with the momentum of the attack, spinning on my heel, my blade transformed into a streak of silver as it slices through the neck of a wraith coming from behind Francesca.

  Noticing how easily the furies are being dispatched, I start to believe that we will be able to fight our way out of this. But a cry of alarm catches my attention, forcing me to turn to my right. Over on the far side of the chamber, near the pew that is braced up against the door, Prayer has been knocked to the ground. She clutches a deep gash across her left shoulder, and her blade lies uselessly several yards beyond her reach. To make matters worse, the four remaining furies to have burst into the chapel are tearing towards her, their fingers bared in preparation to slice her apart.

  I snatch Francesca’s hunting blade and race across the chapel, catching two of the spectres by surprise by coming up behind them and slaying them with synchronised swipes of my swords. Still some distance away from the remaining furies, which are on the opposite side of the chapel, and knowing that I will never reach Prayer in time, I wedge the toe of my boot beneath her hunting knife. I call out her name in warning, drawing her attention, and flick the blade towards her. She catches the knife and slashes desperately over her right shoulder, cleaving through one of the furies. But the remaining wraith twists to the left, narrowly avoiding Prayer’s knife, which it sends skittering across the stone floor with a swipe of its hand. The fury grabs Prayer by the hair, forces her head back exposing the English slayer’s neck, and draws back its clawed hand. A desperate cry caught in my throat, I streak forward and dive onto the pew braced against the door. The momentum of my charge allows me to slide on my belly across the pew, and I plunge my rapier through the fury’s chest, killing it instantly, its dagger-like fingers turning to ash only an inch away from Prayer’s throat.

  Prayer raises a hand in a gesture of gratitude. ‘That was close,’ she says, wincing against the pain in her wounded shoulder. ‘I didn’t think you were going to reach me in time.’

  I kneel down beside her and give her a reassuring pat on the back. ‘Believe me, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Your brother would never forgive me. I’d rather face a thousand furies than have him come after me.’

  Prayer cannot help but smile. ‘That’s a valid point.’ She looks around the chapel. ‘I think that was the last of them.’

  ‘We got them all – or rather, Jakob got them all,’ Francesca confirms, using the pews to support herself as she hobbles over towards us.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean that more won’t come,’ I warn, assisting Francesca as she joins us over near the barricaded door that, located on the opposite side to the shattered window, has become the safest part of the chapel.

  I retrieve Prayer’s hunting knife and inspect her shoulder. Believing the deep gash will need to be sutured but lacking the means of doing this, I follow Armand’s example: I cut a length of material from the hem of my cloak, which I then tie as a makeshift bandage around the wound. Returning Francesca her sword, I step into the middle of the chapel, wipe a hand across my forehead, face the window and prepare myself for the next onslaught.

  ‘I don’t think any more will come,’ Francesca says after a few anxious seconds.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ I ask.

  Francesca jerks her chin towards the door. ‘Listen. You can’t hear them. It’s almost as if the furies have moved off or been killed.’

  I had been so focused on defending the chapel, I had failed to notice that it has become deathly quiet outside. Not only can I no longer hear the screeching furies and their clawing at the door, but the distinct clang of blades has also ended. All that can be heard is the haunting, wailing wind.

  ‘You’re right.’ I move over to the door and press an ear against it. ‘Perhaps we should check outside?’

  Eager to find out what has become of Armand, I don’t even wait for a response to my question. I place my sword on the ground, crouch down, brace my shoulder against the pew that blocks the door and push with all my might. After several efforts, I manage to move it a few feet. I then retrieve my sword, pull back the iron latch and open the door a few inches. I peer outside.

  From the light cast by a nearby lantern, I can see that the bridge roadway is deserted. The only evidence that this area had been host to a recent fight are the claw marks all over the exterior of the door and the piles of ash left behind by the slain furies. Even these are quickly disappearing, being blown away by the wind. Alarmingly, there is no sign of Armand, nor of the Warlock of Lower Slaughter.

  Wondering what has happened to my friend, I step cautiously outside, and my eyes are drawn immediately over to the drawbridge – or rather, to where the drawbridge used to be. All that remains of it is the left-hand section of bridge railing, spanning across the newly created thirty-yard-wide chasm on a heavy wooden support beam. On the opposite side of the breach, a ten-yard-long section of the drawbridge hangs vertically against the side of the far pier, dangling from two thick lengths of rope tied around twin stone pylons on the edges of the bridge roadway.

  Realising that this was the source of the terrible crashing sound that had assailed my ears, but curious as to what could have possibly caused this to happen, I walk warily over to the chasm. I get the shock of my life when I see two figures, barely visible in the darkness of the void, hanging from the end of the dangling section of drawbridge.

  ‘Armand?’ I call out, my heart racing, believing that one of the shapes must be the French duellist.

  ‘Jakob!’ the figure on the left yells back.

  I breathe a sigh of relief, recognising the voice as Armand’s. On closer inspection, I notice that he has hooked the heel of his right boot onto a projecting wooden beam, and is holding onto the bridge with his left hand, his bandaged right hand held against his chest. Looking across to the other side, I see that the Son of Cain is hanging from the lowest section of the bridge and is slowly making his way over towards Armand.

  ‘How can I help you?’ I scan the dangling drawbridge and the remaining section of bridge railing, trying to work out how to make my way down.

  Armand shakes his head. ‘I don’t think you can. I injured my hand again in the fall. There’s no way I can climb up.’ He curses in frustration. ‘I had killed the furies and had everything under control until the Warlock cast a spell that smote the drawbridge in two. As we happened to be fighting on it at the time, it’s nothing short of a miracle that I didn’t fall to my death.’

  ‘There has to be something I can do,’ I say, refusing to give up.

  ‘Whatever you are going to do, you’d better do it fast.’ Armand looks across at the Warlock, who is now only six yards away from him. ‘And don’t you dare think of climbing down. It’s too dangerous. If you fall from here you’ll smash onto the broken sections of drawbridge caught between the piers beneath us. You’d never survive.’

  ‘We’ll worry about that later,’ I say, already moving over to the narrow bridge railing and testing my weight on it. Believing it will be able to support me, I take a firm hold on the hand rail, use it to keep my balance and shuffle out across the void. Terrified of looking down, I lock my eyes on the far side of the bridge and make my way over as quickly as possible. I am only halfway across, however, when I hear the sound of clanging swords. Forcing myself to look down, I find that the Warlock of Lower Slaughter has climbed across to reach Armand. The Son of Cain is hanging from the bridge with his left hand. He has drawn his blade with his right and is attacking Armand. Needing his one good hand to defend himself, th
e French duellist has somehow hooked his legs over the projecting wooden beam and is now hanging upside down, parrying aside the Warlock’s blade with his mortuary sword.

  Fearing Armand won’t last long, I search desperately for a means of assisting him, and spot the wagon that Francesca and I had previously rested behind. Only now do I notice it is stacked with small barrels. Racing over to the wagon, I grab one of the barrels, hasten back over to the edge of the broken drawbridge and take position above the Warlock.

  ‘Armand, look out!’ I yell, alerting him to the barrel poised in my hands, ready to drop on the Warlock of Lower Slaughter.

  As Armand twists his body away from the Son of Cain – who is so caught up in his attempt to kill the Frenchman that he hasn’t even noticed me appear above him – I drop the barrel. Just as the Warlock draws back his sword in preparation to deliver a swipe guaranteed to cleave Armand in two, the barrel crashes onto the Son of Cain’s head and knocks him from the bridge. Thrashing and screaming, he plummets down the side of the pier to crash – flat on his back – onto the jagged remains of the drawbridge that lie snagged to the wooden pontoon at the base of the pier. There is a sickening crunch, then the Warlock’s lifeless form slides into the Thames to be swept away by the current.

  ‘That’s one problem dealt with.’ Armand swaps his sword into his right hand. With considerable effort, he swings himself up to grab hold of the drawbridge. He sheathes his blade. ‘But I’ve still got to get back up to the bridge. And I don’t think I’ve got the strength in my right hand to do that.’

  ‘I’ll find a rope and pull you up,’ I say encouragingly, glancing back at the wagon. ‘There’s bound to be one around here somewhere. Just don’t go falling into the river before I return.’

  Armand flexes the fingers of his injured hand. ‘I wasn’t planning on taking another dip in the Thames tonight.’

  Before I can respond we suddenly hear a loud snap. I look down at Armand, who grabs hold of the bridge with both hands.

  The suspended section of bridge then groans and plummets down the side of the pier.

  My heart caught in my throat, I watch helplessly as the right-hand side of the bridge slides into the chasm. Armand holds on for dear life, his eyes wide with terror. The bridge only drops a few yards before it comes to a jarring halt, almost dislodging Armand, who screams out in pain and nurses his right hand against his side.

  For a few anxious moments I stare down at Armand clinging to the now lopsided dangling section of drawbridge. When he resumes a two-handed grip on the wooden beams and I am confident that he won’t fall, I try to find out what happened.

  As I had previously noticed, the bridge is being held in place by two lengths of rope tied to small stone columns located on opposite sides at the southern edge of the chasm. But it’s only now I realise that each section of rope is actually comprised of two separate ropes that have been wound together to form a single, stronger length. One of the wound sections of rope over to the right has snapped, causing the bridge to suddenly drop, and leaving one, frayed remaining length of rope to support its weight.

  ‘This isn’t good, is it?’ Armand asks desperately.

  I shake my head. ‘All that’s keeping the drawbridge from falling are two ropes. I don’t think we have long before one of them snaps.’

  Armand glances down at the water racing past the shattered remnants of the drawbridge. ‘It’s just one thing after another, isn’t it? If only I could use both hands, I’d be able to climb back up.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t need to use your right hand,’ a familiar voice says. Armand and I look across to the opposite side of the bridge and see Francesca sitting at the edge of the chasm. She aims her crossbow at the dangling drawbridge, slightly above Armand’s head. ‘Don’t move,’ she instructs, steadying her breathing and staring down the crossbow’s sights. Prayer is standing off to her side, the Devil’s Bible resting at her feet and the Malleus Maleficarum held in her hands, its blue light illuminating the night.

  ‘It’s not as if there are many places I can go,’ Armand says dourly, burying his head in his shoulder. ‘I think I know what you have in mind, Francesca. Just don’t miss.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Francesca says softly, deep in concentration. ‘Prayer, can you give me more light?’

  Prayer nods and utters an incantation. The light emanating from the codex intensifies, eventually basking Armand in a soft blue glow.

  ‘How’s that?’ she asks.

  Francesca’s eyes narrow. ‘Perfect.’

  She then fires all twelve bolts, raising her crossbow a fraction after each shot and alternating her aim to the left and right, to create a series of handholds for Armand to use. When she is finished, she lowers her crossbow, exhales heavily and massages her injured thigh.

  ‘You should be able to go up now,’ she says.

  Armand reaches up, hooks his right forearm around the closest bolt and tests his weight on it. Satisfied that it will hold, he climbs up the suspended length of drawbridge. In spite of his injured hand, he moves with surprising speed, and it doesn’t take him long to climb within two yards of the top of the pier.

  ‘It appears as if I’ll get out of this mess yet.’ He looks up and gives me a triumphant grin.

  I kneel by the edge of the drop and reach down to offer Armand a hand. ‘Let’s not start celebrating just yet; not until you have your feet firmly planted on the bridge.’ I cast a wary glance over at the frayed section of rope. Only to find that it has been worn down by the sharp edge of the pier to nothing more than a few straining strands.

  ‘Armand! The rope’s about to give way!’ I lie on the edge of the pier and reach down as far as I can, but my outstretched fingers are still a good yard above the Frenchman.

  The grin vanishes from Armand’s lips. Then the rope snaps.

  The right-hand side of the dangling drawbridge falls down the side of the pier. A second later, the length of rope attached to the stone pylon on the opposite side of the bridge, unable to support the weight of the structure, also snaps.

  The entire section of remaining drawbridge plummets down the chasm.

  And it’s at that moment, when all hope seems lost and Armand is destined to fall to his death, that the duellist makes a desperate leap, his outstretched left hand reaching for mine.

  For a split second, time seems to freeze.

  Then our hands lock in a monkey-grip. Wary of being pulled over the edge, I grip the remaining yard of rope attached to the pylon with my free hand. Biting my lip, struggling to support Armand’s weight, I hold on for dear life.

  There’s a tremendous CRASH! as the drawbridge smashes into the river. But I am too drained to save Armand from the same fate. Just when I fear that I’m not going to be able to hold on for much longer, Armand’s feet find purchase in the grooves between the stone slabs on the side of the pier, allowing me to pull him up. We crawl away from the edge and lie on our backs, breathing heavily.

  ‘That was close,’ I say at length, sitting up.

  ‘Too close,’ Armand says. ‘Yet again, I owe you my life, Jakob. I don’t know where I’d be without you.’

  ‘You’d more than likely be dead at the bottom of London Bridge,’ Francesca says. Surprised, we look up to find that she and Prayer have traversed the chasm via the remaining section of handrail. What is even more surprising is that, despite their wounds and fatigue, they somehow managed to carry the Devil’s Bible across with them.

  ‘I thought for a terrible moment we were going to lose both of you,’ Francesca continues.

  I make a dismissive gesture at the tomb-robber as she and the English witch hunter sit down beside us. ‘We’re Hexenjäger. We don’t go down that easy.’

  Armand smiles proudly. ‘Spoken like a true witch hunter.’

  As Francesca rolls her eyes, I massage some life back into my
left arm and shoulder, the muscles strained from saving Armand. ‘Mind you, I think my arm’s an inch or two longer now.’

  Armand winks playfully. ‘Then think yourself lucky, Jakob. Your extended reach will give you an unfair advantage in swordplay from here on.’

  We laugh for a while at his comment, relieved to have made it through the night. Noticing my gunpowder flask is wet, Prayer kindly hands me hers, and I tie it to my belt.

  ‘Well, that’s three of the Sons of Cain dealt with,’ I say. ‘There’s only Alistair McClodden left.’

  Armand sits up, tilts his head and frowns. ‘Aren’t you forgetting about Nils Fabricius?’

  I shake my head. ‘He’s dead. I slew him with my sword.’

  Armand gives me an impressed look. ‘You killed Fabricius? Well done, Jakob. That’s good news. Good news, indeed. I knew that all that sword-training would pay off.’ He produces his water-skin and takes a long draught, then, with a proud smile, passes it to me. I take a drink and hand it back.

  ‘What’s become of von Frankenthal?’ I ask. ‘I thought he would have been with you and Prayer.’

  Armand wipes his sleeve across his lips. ‘I found von Frankenthal not long after I left you back at the graves.’ He rises to his feet and looks to the north. ‘We managed to draw McClodden and Whitcliff after us. We led them on a wild-goose chase through half of the city before they finally caught us. While I fought Whitcliff, von Frankenthal paired off with the Scotsman.’

  ‘I bet that was one hell of a fight.’ I envisage the encounter between the two massive warriors.