The Witch Hunter Chronicles 3 Page 9

  Having sheathed his rapier and drawn a dagger in preparation for close-quarters combat, Dorian grapples with the Ghost, grabbing his sword-arm and attempting to drive his dagger into the spy’s side. But the Ghost manages to grab hold of Dorian’s blade and overpowers him. Forcing Dorian’s arms back to expose his torso, the Ghost drives a knee with bone-crunching force straight into the witch hunter’s crotch.

  Dorian doubles over and drops his dagger, which bounces off the roof and skitters down the road. Before any us have time to come to our companion’s assistance, the Ghost grabs the English witch hunter by the scruff of the neck and throws him off the front of the carriage.

  Time seems to stall as Dorian flies through the air, his arms flailing wildly, before he disappears into the gap between the galloping horses. I turn my head away and squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating the sickening crunch of his body beneath the coach’s iron-rimmed wheels. But it doesn’t come, and I look to the front of the coach and find, to my utter amazement, that Dorian has somehow managed to grab hold of the leather straps tethering the horses together – with his feet! He is hanging, upside down, between the racing horses, suspended above the speeding cobbles by mere inches.

  My eyes locked on Dorian, I fail to notice the sharp turn in the road ahead until it is too late.

  ‘This isn’t going to be good!’ Lieutenant Wolf warns. He pulls hard on the reins and steers his mounts sharply to the right in an attempt to navigate the turn. ‘Brace yourselves. This will be close!’

  With nobody left to steer the horses on my carriage away from the Lieutenant’s, the two sets of mounts slam into one another. The force of the impact almost throws von Frankenthal from the roof. At the last moment, he manages to drop to all fours, his hands locking like vices on either side of the roof, securing his hold. I notice the Ghost, quick to respond, do likewise.

  But I’m not so lucky.

  Fortunately, the Lieutenant’s horses force ours around the corner, and both coaches fly around the bend – we avoid crashing into the neighbouring buildings by only a hair’s breadth. But the inertia created by the sudden turn is too great. My heart practically popping out of my chest in fright, I lose my hold on the roof and fall backwards out the window.

  I cry out in terror as I wait for my skull to crack like a ripe melon on the cobbles below. Just as the top of my hat is a mere inch or two above the road, strong hands grab hold of my ankles and hold me in place, preventing me from falling any further.

  Dangling upside down along the side of the coach, a rear wheel of the other carriage a grinding whirr of death only a foot away from my face, I stare up at Prince Rupert.

  ‘You didn’t think you were going to get out of here that easily, did you?’ he says, grimacing as he pulls me back inside the carriage.

  ‘I thought that was the end of me,’ I gasp once I am back beside the Prince. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘You can thank me later. We’re not out of this yet. We’ve still got to catch the Ghost, and he’s proving to be as crafty as a fox.’

  ‘But he can’t maintain this forever,’ I say, only now realising that I didn’t drop my pistol when I fell out the window. It is still clutched in my hand, ready to fire. ‘His luck will run out sooner or later. Then we’ll get him.’

  It’s then that fortune blows a raspberry in my face. For Lieutenant Wolf calls out, announcing that we have come to the end of the road.

  I look out the window and notice that we have reached the northern limits of the sprawling metropolis. Beyond the row of houses the city ends, leading into country roads.

  Leaving the city behind, we race along a dirt road, flanked by meadows and the occasional farmhouse, which appear as black monoliths in the distance. With only the moonlight to guide him, Lieutenant Wolf tries to keep pace with our speeding carriage. He is doing a commendable job, in fact, until we approach a river spanned by an old wooden bridge. Both carriages race towards the bridge at full speed, and it is only when we are some ten yards away that we make the terrible realisation that it is considerably narrower than the road, creating a bottleneck.

  Anticipating a shocking crash, I pull myself back inside the cabin, tuck my pistol under my belt and brace myself.

  ‘Look out!’ Lieutenant Wolf cries, pulling hard on his reins.

  But not even von Frankenthal’s muscle-corded arms would be powerful enough to pull up the horses, and both carriages collide.

  The horses go down fast – hard! – entangled in a mess of twisted legs and harnesses. And then the carriages crash into one another – just a second before they plough into the fallen mounts. The next instant, both carriages flip over the horses. I cry out, terrified, as we sail through the air, clipping the bridge’s wooden railing, before we come to a jarring halt as we land roof-first in the river.

  I lie on the inverted ceiling of the cabin for some time, amazed to have survived the crash with nothing more than a split lip. Prince Rupert is on top of me, disoriented, his features contorted in pain as he clutches his left shoulder. Of Spartaco there is no sign. I can only assume that the Italian was thrown clear when we sailed off the bridge.

  With water flooding through the windows as the carriage slowly sinks into the river, I grab the Prince by the arm and scramble out of the cabin. I assist him in swimming a short distance across to the side of the river, and together we climb up the steep bank.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask, hearing the Prince moan in pain.

  The Prince shakes his head. ‘I think I’ve dislocated my shoulder. But I’ll be fine. Go and check the other carriage. The others may need your help.’

  Desperate to find what has become of my companions, I return to the water and swim towards the other half-sunk carriage. I have only swum half the distance when I find that Francesca has already freed herself and is making her way over to the opposite bank to join a hulking figure, who I can only assume is von Frankenthal. Both of them appear to be uninjured.

  I hear cries over to my right and move towards the bridge to find Lieutenant Wolf struggling to stay afloat. Hooking an arm under his shoulder, I assist him over to the river bank and drag him out. I gasp in shock when I see the length of wood, more than a yard long and an inch thick, impaled through his thigh.

  ‘My God!’ I exclaim, taking off my cloak and attempting to staunch the blood streaming from the wound.

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ the Lieutenant says bravely. But his entire body is racked by convulsive shudders of pain. He passes out before I finish wrapping my cloak around the wound.

  I leave the length of wood impaled in his thigh – for fear of causing greater blood loss if I were to try removing it – and call out to Prince Rupert, informing him that the Lieutenant is in urgent need of medical attention. As the Prince staggers over to join me, my attention is drawn to the darkness beyond the river bank, where I hear the sound of clanging blades.

  What?

  I tell the Prince to stay put and watch over Lieutenant Wolf. I then scramble over the bank, and my hand flies to my remaining rapier.

  Dorian is alive!

  The English witch hunter somehow managed to survive the crash on the bridge. But I fear he won’t last much longer. Not when he’s locked in a duel with the Ghost.

  Whereas Dorian is covered in more cuts than an axeman’s chopping block, the Ghost is uninjured. Having been positioned atop his carriage when it crashed off the bridge, he must have jumped to safety, landing in the river. He must have also rescued Spartaco, for the Italian is lying several yards off to the side.

  I call out to alert my companions on the opposite side of the river, draw my blade and race over to assist Dorian. But I am too late. Just as I am within six yards of the combatants, Dorian lunges forward, his rapier aimed at the Ghost’s heart. But the night has taken its toll on the witch hunter – his attack is slow and clumsy, as if
he is being driven by instinct alone. The French spy deflects the attack with relative ease and, pushing off his rear leg, darts forward to hammer the guard of his rapier into Dorian’s jaw. The witch hunter collapses to the ground, spitting blood, and leaves me to face the Ghost alone.

  ‘It seems as if we are back where we started.’ The Ghost positions the point of his blade under Dorian’s chin, his eyes locked on mine. ‘It’s just you and me, boy. Only this time I hold a distinct advantage: I have two of your friends at my mercy.’

  ‘Two?’ I ask, for although Dorian is being held at sword-point, the rest of my companions are accounted for, either recovering or lying wounded by the river. But then a cold shudder races up my spine, as I only now realise why nobody has seen Armand since we last saw him atop the roof in Whitehall.

  ‘Where is he? What have you done to the other Hexenjäger?’ I demand, taking a step towards the Ghost. He raises a finger in warning and applies pressure on his rapier, drawing a trickle of blood from Dorian’s throat.

  ‘Don’t do anything rash,’ the spy warns. ‘Now go and bring me that remaining horse. Then I’ll tell you where your friend is.’

  Looking over my shoulder, I’m surprised to find that one of the horses survived the crash. It has wandered over to the end of the bridge, some ten yards away.

  Dorian stares defiantly at his captor. ‘Don’t do anything for him, Jakob. Stall him until your friends arrive. Then kill him like the dog he is!’

  The Ghost cocks his head to one side and considers the witch hunter. ‘Now that’s not helping matters much, is it? It would be best if you keep silent from here on, or I might be forced to slit your throat. In fact, there’s no practical need for me to spare you. I already have my bargaining piece in the form of the first witch hunter I captured.’

  Dorian breathes heavily and tilts his head back further, as if to offer the Ghost a clear target. ‘Then do it.’

  ‘No!’ I say, not understanding Dorian’s death wish. ‘I’ll get you the horse. But then you must let Dorian go.’ I stare hard into the shadows beneath the Ghost’s hat. ‘And you must promise to tell me what you have done with the other witch hunter.’

  The Ghost considers me for a few seconds before saying, ‘I give you my word, but only on the condition that you give me yours that this is the end of the chase. Once I have that horse, you will let me ride out of here.’

  ‘You have my word,’ I say, concerned for only Armand’s and Dorian’s safety.

  I bring the horse over to the Ghost, who orders me to pick up Spartaco and place him over the horse’s back. Picking up the unconscious Italian, I do as instructed, then take several steps back.

  The Ghost sheathes his blade and reaches down to take one of Dorian’s pistols. He makes his way over to the horse, the pistol trained on Dorian the entire time. The English witch hunter rises gingerly to his feet, his eyes burning with rage.

  Once mounted – and just as I hear the sound of footfalls reverberate on the bridge as Francesca and von Frankenthal make their way across the river – the Ghost looks at me. ‘You will find your fellow Hexenjäger gagged and bound to a chimney near where we first met. He is unharmed.’ He takes off his hat, sweeps it before him in a grand gesture and bows. Something falls from his belt and lands near the rear hooves of the horse. ‘It has been a most eventful night. Until we meet again, young witch hunter.’

  As the Ghost gallops off into the darkness, Dorian reaches for the remaining pistol tucked into his belt and takes aim at the French spy.

  ‘No!’ I knock aside the barrel of his pistol with my rapier. ‘I gave him my word that I would let him go. Have you no honour?’

  ‘There is no such thing as honour,’ Dorian sneers. ‘It is merely an excuse made by cowards to justify their actions – or rather, their lack of action.’

  He raises his pistol to take aim again, but the Ghost has disappeared into the night. Dorian gives me a disgusted look, spits near my feet and stalks off.

  Making a promise to myself that I will have nothing more to do with the English witch hunter, I sheathe my rapier. I walk over to collect the item that the Ghost had dropped and find that it is a small, leather-bound book. Curious, but knowing that my injured companions are in need of my help, I place it in a pocket on the inside of my cloak, intending to look at it later.

  The chase finally over, I am overcome by a sudden wave of exhaustion. Adrenaline alone has kept me going, and I collapse to my knees. A thousand flashing stars besiege my vision for the second time this night, and I am vaguely aware of someone calling my name. I can also hear the sound of rushing feet. But then I succumb to a darkness deeper than the night and pass out.

  I wake in a soft bed in an unfamiliar room, its furnishings sparse but of notable quality. Finding my weapons and a fresh set of clothes lying on a bedside table, I dress quickly, equip my weapons – cursing under my breath when I recall what has become of my Pappenheimer rapier – and pause to look out the room’s solitary window.

  I must be on the third floor. My gaze is drawn over the neighbouring rooftops to the Thames, which is little more than a stone’s throw away, its brown surface a commotion of ships and barges. The docks and wharves lining its banks are covered in seamen, haggling merchants and dockyard workers, who are unloading cargo from ships via ramps and swing pulleys. Judging from the position of the sun and the absence of shadows around the neighbouring chimney stacks, it must be around midday.

  London. I still can’t believe I’ve ended up here, so far away from my new home. Hopefully when all of this is over, my friends and I will be able to return to solving the mystery as to who my father is. Right now, however, I need to find out what has become of Armand and my companions, and where I am – although I assume I am in a bedroom on the top floor of Prince Rupert’s lodgings in Whitehall.

  I exit the room and walk down a corridor. This eventually leads to a drawing room, where, to my relief, I find Francesca, von Frankenthal and Armand lounging in chairs. Armand is swirling a goblet of claret in his hand, and he smiles warmly when he sees me.

  ‘Thank God you are all right.’ I rush over to him and extend a hand in welcome. ‘I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again.’

  The Frenchman’s eyes lack their characteristic confident glint as he shakes my hand. ‘That was one night I’d prefer to forget.’

  ‘I didn’t think anybody could get the drop on you,’ I say, pulling up a seat.

  ‘I’m only human.’ Armand shrugs. ‘And I was reckless. I was so focused on trying to catch the Ghost that I wasn’t even aware he had an accomplice until it was too late. The first I saw of him was when he came at me from behind and put a knife to my throat.’

  A cold chill runs over my skin at the mention of the Italian. ‘That’s Spartaco. He’s a cold-blooded killer. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you then and there.’

  ‘Believe me, he wanted to. But it was the Ghost who stopped him.’

  ‘I’m not surprised to hear that,’ I say. ‘Although a professional spy and thief, he seems a man of honour.’

  Von Frankenthal snorts derisively. ‘A man of honour? He’s nothing more than a glorified footpad.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’ I shake my head, surprised by my willingness to defend the French spy. ‘He had his sword pressed against my throat last night. He could have easily killed me, yet he let me live. He also had an opportunity to slay Dorian, but he didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I hope he and Spartaco don’t expect any such mercy from me if we ever run into them again,’ von Frankenthal says. ‘They humiliated us – made us look like a pack of amateurs. We need to restore the honour of our order.’

  I nod in agreement. ‘They gave us a run for our money. But don’t forget that we are witch hunters. We are trained in the art of slaying Satan’s servants. Last night we chased a professional thief across rooftops. We char
ged blindly into his terrain – in a city that we don’t even know. He held the advantage right from the beginning. I don’t think we should be too hard on ourselves.’

  Armand takes a sip of his drink. He savours the liquid for a few seconds before swallowing. ‘Jakob is right,’ he says at length, looking up. ‘We were too hasty. We underestimated the Ghost and played right into his hands. Let this be a lesson to us: we need to watch each other’s backs. It was foolish for me to have raced across the rooftops in pursuit. I should have taken one of you with me. If I had been more cautious, Spartaco would never have caught me.’

  ‘Considering all that we went through, it’s nothing short of a miracle that none of us were killed,’ Francesca says. ‘Although Dorian, Prince Rupert and Lieutenant Wolf came out worse for wear.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I ask. ‘The last thing I remember is seeing the Ghost ride off into the night.’

  ‘Christian and I saw you collapse, but you were unconscious by the time we reached you,’ Francesca explains. ‘Christian carried you back to the river bank to watch over you and Lieutenant Wolf.’

  ‘The Lieutenant was badly injured,’ I say. ‘And so was the Prince. I remember that much, at least.’

  Francesca nods. ‘Prince Rupert pushed his shoulder back into place by slamming it against a tree trunk. As luck would have it, a group of night watchmen came out to investigate what had happened. One of them summoned a carriage, and you and the Lieutenant were taken back to the Prince’s lodgings.’

  ‘How did you find Armand?’ I ask.

  ‘Dorian led us to where the Ghost had said we would find the Frenchman. We found him bound and gagged, tied to a chimney stack. Then we returned to Whitehall.’

  ‘And we’ve been here since, licking our wounds,’ von Frankenthal says restlessly.

  ‘How’s the Lieutenant?’ I ask, fearing for his life, given the severity of the injury he received when the coaches crashed.