The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Page 8

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, somewhat embarrassed that Francesca is fussing over me when Dorian is too injured to even stand. ‘But Dorian is hurt. He took a shot to the chest and crashed through a window.’

  ‘Of course.’ Francesca produces a handkerchief from her pocket and dampens it with some water from her stoppered flask. She kneels down to tend Dorian’s wounds.

  We are then joined by the rest of the group.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Prince Rupert asks, noticing the smashed window and drops of blood on the cobblestone road. He inspects Dorian, flinching when he sees his lacerated face; the blood emphasised by the witch hunter’s white makeup. ‘You’ll have some scars to show from this encounter. It looks as if the Ghost is a skilled fighter if he can take on one of the Angeli Mortis and a Hexenjäger.’

  ‘He wasn’t alone,’ I warn. ‘He had an accomplice. An Italian by the name of Spartaco.’

  Prince Rupert purses his lips in thought and looks across at Lieutenant Wolf. ‘Spartaco. I’ve never heard of this man before.’

  Lieutenant Wolf shakes his head. ‘Nor have I. He must be a hired-sword working for the King’s Secret.’

  ‘And a deadly sword at that,’ I add. ‘He carries dual daggers and knows how to use them. And thinking about it now, he was probably the one who slit the sentries’ throats back at the gate leading into Whitehall.’

  Prince Rupert nods. ‘I didn’t think that was the work of the Ghost. He’s a talented spy and thief, but I’ve also heard that it’s rare for him to take another’s life. I believe he considers it an insult to his skill as a thief.’

  ‘He could have easily killed me,’ I confirm. ‘He disarmed me and had the point of his sword pressed against my throat. But he let me go.’

  ‘Damn!’ von Frankenthal growls, pacing the road. ‘If only I had been here.’

  Dorian looks up and scowls. ‘I had everything under control.’

  Prince Rupert studies the trail of blood leading down the road. ‘Well, at least one of them is injured. And this will make it easier for us to follow them.’

  ‘I managed to take a shot at Spartaco, taking off his right ear,’ I say. ‘Dorian also shot him – where, I’m not sure, but he was hurt. The Ghost had to help him out of here.’

  Prince Rupert stares down the far end of the road, where I had last seen the Ghost and Spartaco. ‘Which means they won’t get far.’ He looks back at Dorian. ‘Can you continue?’

  I give a frustrated sigh. The longer we spend with Prince Rupert, the further we are being dragged from our original plan of finding my father. I don’t even see how hunting down the Ghost will help us to locate the Codex Gigas. Fate has swept us terribly off course, now dragging us into matters of espionage and English national security during the Anglo–Dutch War. To make matters worse, I feel guilty for having dragged my friends into this. Had they not accompanied me into the Dutch Republic, none of them would be in this present predicament.

  Dorian pushes Francesca away and climbs to his feet. ‘Of course,’ he sneers.

  ‘But you were shot,’ I say, wondering how he can carry on and why his clothes are not drenched in blood.

  As if in answer to my unspoken questions, Dorian parts his shirt, revealing a steel chest-plate, its surface inscribed with crucifixes. There is a dent, directly above Dorian’s heart, where Spartaco had shot him.

  ‘A clever trick,’ Francesca says. ‘But you were lucky he didn’t aim at your face.’

  ‘It would make no difference to me,’ Dorian scoffs as he goes to retrieve his rifle. He mumbles something under his breath as he climbs back through the smashed window, and the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  Perhaps I am mistaken, but I am sure he said, ‘For I’m already dead.’

  ‘It’s best if we move off,’ Lieutenant Wolf warns. ‘Not even the night watchmen dare patrol these streets at dark. The last thing we want is an angry mob coming after us, believing we have accosted one of their neighbours.’

  Von Frankenthal snorts. ‘I’m not running away from a couple of knock-kneed hags armed with broomsticks. Let them come. I’ll teach them a lesson or two.’

  ‘Brave words,’ Prince Rupert says. ‘But believe me, even you will run if they come, for they will do so in their hundreds.’

  ‘Have the authorities no control?’ Francesca asks.

  ‘Over most of London, they do. But this area is notorious as a haven for criminals,’ the Lieutenant says, looking warily over his shoulder to where a hovel door creaks open to reveal a brutish man armed with a cudgel. ‘We had best leave before things get messy.’

  ‘Where’s Armand?’ I ask von Frankenthal as we start to move down the road.

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. We haven’t seen him since we last witnessed him atop the rooftops back in Whitehall.’

  Wondering what has become of the Frenchman, I follow my companions.

  We race down to the end of the street until it forms a T-intersection. Mysteriously, the trail of blood suddenly ends.

  Prince Rupert scans above the neighbouring houses. ‘Did they take to the rooftops?’

  ‘That’s my guess,’ I say, considering the Ghost’s and Spartaco’s penchant for using the roofs of the city to their advantage.

  ‘But that’s impossible.’ Francesca directs us to consider the final drops of blood. ‘The trail ends here – right in the middle of the road. There’s no way they could have reached the rooftops from here.’

  It’s only then, kneeling down beside the former Italian tomb-robber to inspect the trail, that I work out what has become of the Ghost and Spartaco. I rise slowly to my feet, wondering how an earth we will ever catch them now.

  ‘Francesca’s right,’ I say, drawing the group’s attention. ‘They didn’t take to the rooftops.’

  Lieutenant Wolf gives a baffled gesture. ‘Then where did they go? They can’t have just disappeared.’

  I inspect the new road we have entered. To the right it runs into a dead end, but the other side stretches off into the night. ‘They went that way,’ I say confidently and point to the left. I jerk my chin at the pile of fresh dung located only a yard away from where the trail of blood ends. ‘And they’ve gone by horse.’

  ‘Not only have they gone by horse,’ Prince Rupert concurs, quick to follow my line of thought, and inspecting more mounds of dung further down the road, ‘but they have gone by coach. Look, these have just been deposited and they have been squished by wheels.’

  Lieutenant Wolf punches a fist in the air in frustration. ‘Then they are as good as gone. We might as well give up.’

  It is just then, however, that fortune smiles on us, and a horse-drawn carriage comes down the road we have just exited. We pull over the coach and order its occupants to climb out. Prince Rupert, Francesca, Dorian and I pile inside the cabin, leaving von Frankenthal and Lieutenant Wolf to climb atop the driver’s seat. There’s a crack of a whip as the Lieutenant spurs the two horses forward and we speed off into the night, leaving the guards who accompanied us out of Whitehall far behind.

  We race to the end of the road, where Prince Rupert leans out of one of the coach’s windows and instructs the Lieutenant to head north.

  ‘We’ll be lucky if we can find them,’ the Prince says, returning to his seat, his voice raised so as to compete with the noise made by the coach’s metal-rimmed wheels as they roll over the cobbles. ‘Our task would have been easier if we were within the heart of the old city, surrounded by its medieval walls. We could have intercepted them at one of the city gates. But we are in the western suburbs now. There are dozens of ways they can exit London. We’ll head up Whitecomb Street, offering the most direct route out of the city. As the Ghost and Spartaco will be keen to escape London, hopefully they will take the same route.’

  A minute or two passes, during which Dorian and I
finish loading our firearms – not an easy task in the bouncing coach. No sooner have we returned our pistols to our belts than Lieutenant Wolf calls out.

  As one, our heads snap up.

  The Lieutenant announces that he had caught a glimpse of a speeding coach on the road directly ahead.

  ‘Get us alongside them,’ Prince Rupert yells out the window, his eyes wide with excitement. ‘We need to take them out before they exit the city.’

  A few sharp cracks of the Lieutenant’s whip spurs our mounts even faster, and it isn’t long before we can hear the racing wheels of the other carriage directly in front of us.

  I lean out a window, trying to see past our horses to discern the identity of the black shape driving the coach. ‘Are we sure it’s them?’

  Prince Rupert produces one of his pistols and cracks back the firing pin. ‘They are making their way up Whitecomb Street and they are driving fast. That’s good enough reason for me. Ready your firearms. We will draw alongside them shortly. I’ll take out the driver. The rest of you deal with whoever is inside the coach.’

  My heart racing faster than the pounding hooves of our horses, I draw both of my pistols and spare an anxious glance at Francesca, who smiles hesitantly in return. The next instant, Lieutenant Wolf brings us up along the left side of the other carriage. Being on the right-hand side of our coach, Dorian and I ready our pistols. We take aim at the window of the opposite coach – which is now no more than two feet away – when it swerves sharply to the left, slamming into us, knocking Dorian and me back into Francesca and Prince Rupert.

  Dorian and I struggle to climb back to the right side of our cabin. No sooner have we regained our position, training our pistols out the window, than Spartaco appears at the opposite window. Before we have time to react, he slashes out with his dagger, knocking aside the barrel of my pistol and slicing a gaping wound across Dorian’s forearm. The English witch hunter recoils in pain, clutching his arm. I whip up my second pistol, but we are side-swiped a second time and I’m knocked back into Francesca as our carriage grazes against the houses lining the street.

  ‘Wolf, get the situation under control!’ Prince Rupert roars.

  ‘I’m onto it,’ the Lieutenant yells back. Our coach swings sharply to the right, crashing into the side of the Ghost’s carriage and forcing it across to the opposite side of the road.

  Seizing the opportunity, Prince Rupert tucks his pistol into his belt and slides back-first out the window. He reaches up, grabs hold of the roof of our carriage and pulls himself up.

  ‘Where does he think he’s going?’ Francesca yells. ‘He’ll get killed out there.’

  ‘It’s not much safer in here,’ I shout, seeing the other carriage swerve back towards us.

  I brace myself for the impact, but it is averted by the Prince, who leaps across to the rooftop of the Ghost’s carriage. Miraculously managing to maintain his balance, the Prince pulls out one of his pistols and takes aim at the Ghost. But the French spy is faster. Twisting around in the driver’s seat, he whips out a pistol and fires a hasty shot over his shoulder. The Prince drops on all fours, the pistol ball whizzing past him.

  This is followed a second later by another BLAM! as either Lieutenant Wolf or von Frankenthal takes a shot at the Ghost, who ducks in his seat, somehow avoiding the ball, and pulls his carriage further across to the opposite side of the street. And it’s at that moment I see Spartaco through the window of the carriage, the pistol in his hand aimed directly upward, preparing to shoot through the roof into the Prince’s chest.

  ‘Look out!’ I yell, practically bursting my tonsils with the effort, fearing there is no hope for the Prince.

  As if sensing what is happening in the cabin below, Prince Rupert responds instantly to my cry. He rolls to his right, bringing himself over to the very edge of the roof. Not even a heartbeat later, Spartaco fires, his pistol ball blasting a hole through the section where the Prince had just been.

  But the Prince is not out of danger.

  The Ghost turns to see what has become of his unwanted passenger. Pulling sharply on his reins, the spy swerves his carriage to the left, forcing the Prince to roll off the roof. Horrified, knowing that no one could survive a fall at this speed onto the hard cobblestones below, I lean out the window and search for the Prince’s body.

  But he is not there.

  A terrible feeling of sickness wells in my stomach. I look back at the Ghost’s carriage, where I fear the Prince may have become entangled in the wheels. My eyes are drawn to a flurry of movement inside the opposite cabin – to where Spartaco is trying to dislodge the Prince, who defied the odds to somehow grab hold of the coach’s far window and is now trying to pull himself into the cabin. He has lodged an elbow on the inside of the door, his legs hovering above the speeding road below. The Prince has caught hold of Spartaco’s dagger with his free hand and is trying desperately to fend off the Italian.

  As if the situation could not get any worse, the Ghost steers his carriage to the right, intending to crush the Prince against the walls of the buildings on the street.

  Not daring to shoot for fear of hitting the Prince, I kick open our carriage door, tuck my pistols into my belt, say a hasty prayer and, turning a deaf ear to Francesca’s protestations, dive across the expanse between the carriages. I fly through the opposite window and crash heavily into Spartaco. Locking an arm around his neck, I drag him back, allowing Prince Rupert to pull himself through the window – just a second before the coach grazes against a building, showering the road behind us with sparks.

  Thrashing about violently, Spartaco – who I only now realise has his left shoulder wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage from where Dorian had shot him – slams an elbow into my chest, making me release my hold around his neck. Through tear-filled eyes and gasping for air, I see Prince Rupert slam a fist into the Italian’s face, knocking him senseless.

  ‘That wasn’t too difficult, was it?’ The Prince grins. He pries the dagger from Spartaco’s hand and places the blade against the Italian’s throat. ‘Now we’ve just got the Ghost to deal with.’

  ‘Which is easier said than done,’ I wheeze, clutching my chest.

  As the Ghost’s carriage picks up speed, our attention is caught by the sound of footsteps atop our cabin. The Prince and I exchange bewildered looks and we lean out the windows to find that the Ghost is standing on the roof, preparing to leap off onto the extending gables of one of the neighbouring buildings.

  That means only one thing: nobody is driving our coach, leaving us racing through the night, out of control.

  ‘He’s not getting away again!’ Prince Rupert snatches one of the pistols from his belt with his free hand and aims at the ceiling of the cabin. ‘Let’s see if the Ghost can dodge pistol balls.’

  Just as he is about to squeeze the trigger, Spartaco comes to his senses. He barges his shoulder into the Prince and spoils his aim; the pistol ball blasts a hole through the front of the cabin.

  ‘Don’t give me an excuse!’ Prince Rupert presses his dagger hard against Spartaco’s throat.

  Spartaco hardly seems frightened by the Prince’s threat. I shudder when I see the Italian staring at me through the corner of his eye.

  ‘Your days are numbered, boy,’ he snarls in stilted German. ‘You disfigured me. I swear to God you’ll know the meaning of pain before I finish with you. You can run to the ends of the world, but you’re as good as dead!’

  The Prince applies more pressure on the dagger, silencing him. ‘You’re in no position to be delivering threats. You’ll be dangling from a hangman’s noose before the end of the week. That is, of course, after you spend some time in our dungeons. We have a guard who specialises in drawing information from spies. It will be interesting to see how long you can last before he extracts everything we need to know about the King’s Secret.’

  Spartaco
stares defiantly at Prince Rupert. ‘You have no idea who I am, or what I am capable of doing. You’ll wish to God the day never came when you crossed my path.’

  The Prince tilts his head in a disdainful manner. ‘Oh, really?’ He lashes out with his pistol, cracking its heavy butt across Spartaco’s temple and knocking him out cold.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ I say, glad that I no longer have to listen to Spartaco’s threats.

  ‘There’s no reason for you to fear him.’ Prince Rupert tucks the Italian’s dagger into a fold of his boot. ‘He can’t harm you now. Rest assured, he’ll spend the rest of his short life under heavy guard in our dungeons. Then he will be hung.’

  I try to take comfort from the Prince’s words, but even with his assurances I have a terrible premonition that Spartaco will escape the hangman’s noose – and that we will indeed meet again sometime in the future.

  I am drawn from my thoughts by the squeal of steel on steel and I peer out the window, only to jolt back in surprise when I see that von Frankenthal and Dorian, his wounded arm crudely bandaged, have climbed atop their carriage. They are locked in a savage fight with the Ghost, who is still standing on the roof above the Prince and me.

  Looking as stable as a house of cards in an earthquake, Dorian and von Frankenthal engage the Ghost in a deadly duel, their blades slashing at each other. Hoping to assist somehow, I lean further out the window and take aim at the Ghost with my pistol. The Ghost notices me and shuffles back to the far side of the roof, moving out of my field of vision. I curse under my breath and push myself out further, lodging a forearm on the roof for support – the cobbles a blur of movement beneath me; the combatants’ swords a hissing blur of death only a foot or two above my head – and reach up with my pistol to take aim at the French spy. Only to have Dorian spoil my aim when he leaps across to the Ghost’s carriage.