witch hunter chronicles 2: army of the undead by stuart daly sample chapter extract
TRANSCRIPT
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The Army of the Undead
Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
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Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
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stuart daly
The Army of the Undead
Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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A Random House bookPublished by Random House Australia Pty LtdLevel 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au
First published by Random House Australia in 2011
Copyright Stuart Daly 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by anyperson or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutoryexceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or byany information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission ofRandom House Australia.
Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found atwww.randomhouse.com.au/offices.
National Library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Author: Daly, StuartTitle: The army of the undead / Stuart DalyISBN: 978 1 74275 055 2 (pbk)Series: Daly, Stuart. Witch hunter chronicles; 2Target Audience: For secondary school ageSubjects: Witch hunting Juvenile fictionDewey number: A823.4
Cover illustration and design by Sammy YuenMaps by Stuart Daly and Anna WarrenInternal design by Midland TypesettersTypeset in 12/16 Minion by Midland Typesetters, AustraliaPrinted in Australia by Griffin Press, an accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004Environmental Management System printer
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The paper this book is printed on is certified against the Forest
Stewardship Council
Standards. Griffin Press holds FSC chain ofcustody certification SGS-COC-005088. FSC promotes environ-mentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viablemanagement of the worlds forests.
Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
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For my three little musketeers
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Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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ENGLAND
FRANCE
THEHOLY
ROMAN
EMPIRE
POLAND
sweden
OTTOMANEMPIRE
SPAIN
RUSSIA
HUNGARY
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Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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ENGLAND
WESTPHALIA
BRANDENBURGPOLAND
SAXONY
SILESIA
BOHEMIA
AUSTRIAHUNGARY
OTTOMANEMPIRE
DUTCHREPUBLIC
SPANISHNETHERLANDS
FRANCE
WRTTEMBURG
LORRAINE
SWITZERLAND
BAVARIA
SAVO
Y
PIEDMONT
THE
MILANESE
PARMA
MODENA
REPUBLICOF
VENICE
POMERANIAPRUSSIA
FRANCHE-COMT
Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
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Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
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Part One
Cemetery adjoining the Church of the
Three Apostles
Outskirts of Wurzen, Saxony1 April 1666, Midnight
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Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
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3
ChapteRone
Drawing a deep breath to steady my nerves, I pull
my cloak tight around my neck, place a tremblinghand on the butt of one of the flintlock pistols tucked into
my belt, and move deeper into the cemetery.
There are tombstones all around me, rising out of the
ground like broken teeth. Theres the odd crypt here and
there, surrounded by crucifixes and statues of angels, saints
and the Virgin Mary, keeping a silent vigil over the dead.
All is blanketed in mist and darkness. All is deathly
still.
I can think of a million places Id rather be right now.
Even the witch-infested banquet hall at Schloss Kriegsberg
would be preferable to this. But dark times call for darkwork, and there isnt much darker work than investigating
exhumed graves in the dead of the night.
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in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
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Over the course of the past week three burials have
taken place in this cemetery, only for the bodies to be
exhumed overnight. This morning, a nightwatchman was
found dead at the nearby church gates. The local parish
priest sent a messenger to the Hexenjger headquarters at
Burg Grimmheim which lies several hours by horse to
the east requesting our assistance. And so the Hexenjger
has been assigned to investigate the case.My companion on this mission is the Bavarian swords-
man Wilhelm Friedsthorm, a veteran witch hunter with
the savage look of a starving wolf. Hes stalking through
the darkness a few yards over to my right, moving with
such stealth and with his crimson tabard hidden beneath
a dark grey cloak, that I can barely see him. If it werenot for the occasional flash of moonlight on the blade of
his drawn rapier and main gauche a left-hand dagger
often used by duellists to slit open the belly of an advers-
ary, or to entangle an enemys blade within its elongated
cross-guard I would have lost track of him the instant
we entered the cemetery.
Conversely, the grey-haired, hunchbacked gravedigger I
am trailing a few yards behind is making enough noise to
wake the dead. Weve only moved some fifty yards through
the cemetery, and Ive already had to caution him twice. If it
were up to me, I would have left him back at the front gates,for some sixth sense warns me that we are not alone in the
cemetery and that the criminal is already here, prowling
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recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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through the night, determined to exhume another corpse.
For that very reason we abandoned our lanterns at the
cemetery gates and decided to proceed in darkness.
Despite the amount of noise being made by the grave-
digger, however, it is necessary for him to accompany us:
he is our guide, directing us to the exhumed graves. The
local parish priest was more than willing to nominate the
gravedigger for the task. And so we have no option but totolerate his presence.
I cannot help but wonder who committed this crime. It
was obviously someone with a powerful motive; someone
prepared to risk being interrogated by the Catholic Church
and face the wrath of the Inquisition.
My initial thought was that the bodies had beenexhumed by someone with an interest in studying human
anatomy: possibly an artist, sculptor or physician. This
assumption was based heavily upon the evidence that the
bodies had only recently been buried. The headstones had
not yet been erected. The culprit wanted fresh corpses
bodies that had not yet decomposed.
I once read that artists such as Leonardo da Vinci and
Michelangelo, driven by their passion to develop a greater
understanding of muscle and bone structure, had conducted
autopsies on bodies they had stolen from graveyards. Of
course, they had kept such activities secret. And rightly so,for the Church still considers such activities as heresy an
act punishable by being burned alive at the stake.
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If the bodies had been exhumed by artists, why did they
dig up and steal three bodies? Surely one would suffice.
And why risk bringing this to the attention of the Church?
One body may have perhaps passed unnoticed. But three,
all from the same cemetery and within a week is a
different matter.
Perhaps it wasnt artists or physicians. Was it grave-
robbers? Not likely. They usually just steal the possessionsthat have been buried with the dead not the corpses
themselves. So who, then?
With my thoughts focused on trying to determine who
is responsible for this crime, Im surprised by the grave-
diggers announcement that we have arrived at the
desecrated graves. Following Wilhelms lead, the grave-digger and I crouch behind a tombstone, and spend a
few minutes monitoring the cemetery, scouring the night
for evidence of movement.
The darkness betrays nothing.
A signal from Wilhelm indicates that Im to inspect the
graves. I wonder if now would be a good time to remind him
that Ive only been in the Hexenjger for just over a month. I
was inducted as a fully fledged witch hunter only two weeks
ago, as a reward for the role I played during the mission to
Schloss Kriegsberg. But that doesnt mean that Im experi-
enced in the art of combat, and I often wonder if my fellowHexenjger now have higher expectations of me.
This is only the second mission I have ever been sent
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in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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on. It took me over two weeks to fully recover from the
injuries I sustained whilst facing the witches, the Brother-
hood of the Cross and the Kings Secret in Schloss Kriegs-
berg. Perhaps I might have recovered sooner had not
my convalescence been interrupted by periods of sword
training. I would have much preferred to have spent the
fortnight resting, allowing my body to fully recover. But
Armand Breteuil the flamboyant ex-captain of LouisXIVs Royal Palace Cavalry had argued otherwise, insist-
ing that it would only be a matter of time until I would
be called into the field once more, and that I needed to
develop greater confidence in the art of swordplay. So,
having only had three days rest, Armand and I found
ourselves engaged in a daily routine of crossing blades inthe Hexenjger training hall.
Although I found it annoying at the time with every
muscle in my body screaming in protest I could not be
more grateful for Armands dogged persistence. One can
hardly perfect the art of swordplay in one month, and I still
have a long way to go before I can even begin to consider
myself competent in the use of a rapier. But Armand has
taught me valuable lessons that manuals cannot ones that
can only be taught by a veteran duellist experienced in close-
quarters combat, such as how to use your cloak in your
off-hand to ensnare an opponents blade, and how to turn aparry into a riposte guaranteed to unbalance even the most
sure-footed of duellists.
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in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
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With the gravedigger and Wilhelm remaining hidden,
I swallow back the ball of nerves in my throat, draw one
of my rapiers and, with a pistol held at the ready, move
over to investigate the desecrated graves. They are now
just dark pits in the earth. So much for resting in peace for
an eternity. These poor souls were dug up even before the
earth had settled around them.
And you dont need to be a genius to tell me whichgrave is going to be targeted next. For, just off to the right,
there is a burial that looks as if it took place earlier this
morning, evident by the fresh earth and its absence of a
headstone.
I scurry back to my companions.
Can you remember who was buried here? I ask thegravedigger, trying to shed some light on the mystery.
The gravedigger scratches his head, as if hes trying to
prod his brain into action. The first three burials were
for locals killed by a bloody flux that has swept through
this area, but I cant remember their names. He pauses as
he takes another scratch. And the burial that took place
this morning was for a man who died over a week ago of
natural causes. We had to keep the poor old wretch lying in
the charnel house all that time as my assistant gravedigger
has been ill. If I could have had my way, Id still have all the
bodies lying in the charnel house. Its not easy digging asix-foot-deep grave, let alone three of them, at my age. But
the parish priest insisted that I bury the three people killed
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by the flux for fear of an outbreak. It was only this morning
that my assistant felt well enough to return to work, and
we finally had a chance to put the old man to rest. I cant
remember his name, but he had the most peculiar birth-
mark on his forehead: it looked like an infants handprint.
My blood freezes at the mention of this.
It would have been nice to have been given this infor-
mation beforehand. For now I know that these are no actsof random desecration. These graves were deliberately
targeted. I shift nervously. The plot has thickened like
curdled milk. And it smells just as foul.
There had once been a man named Andreas Rundst,
who lived for some time in Dresden, the town in which
I grew up. He had the most remarkable birthmark in theform of a small handprint on his forehead. He had sought
my uncles assistance a while back something concerning
a horse that had gone lame, as far as I can recall. But I dont
think there was anybody in Dresden nine years ago who
hadnt heard about the man. Although I was only seven at
the time, he was often the topic of discussion around my
uncles dinner table, and I have a solid recollection of the
mystery surrounding his life.
Andreas is or, rather, was an apothecary who reput-
edly possessed the power of divination: a prophet who
could see into the future. As such, he enjoyed the patron-age of Dresdens nobility until he came to the attention
of the Church. He endured several weeks of interrogation
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before he was finally released. A very lucky man, to say the
least. And smart, too, for he concealed his prophecies in
cryptic verses that were open to multiple interpretations.
But their true meaning was kept secret, ultimately saving
him from the Inquisition.
It was many years ago, however, that I learned something
about Andreas that would haunt my sleep for years to
come. Deep in the dead of a cold winters night, I had beenwoken from my sleep by voices in the common room.
I had crept into the adjoining kitchen and, spying through
the doorway, saw my uncle engaged in a hushed conver-
sation with Father Giuseppe Callumbro, with whom both
my uncle and Andreas were intimate friends. Withdraw-
ing into the kitchen, I trained an ear on their conversation,and it did not take me long to learn that Father Callum-
bro had come to seek my uncles advice on a matter of the
gravest importance. He informed my uncle that he had
been approached by Andreas on the steps of his church
that morning. Andreas said he had had a horrific vision in
which he had seen thousands dying of plague and war, and
entire kingdoms engulfed in blazing infernos and swamped
by cataclysmic floods.
He had witnessed what no mere mortal should have
ever seen. He had witnessed the end of the world
Armageddon! But Andreass vision had also revealed thatthese events would only come to pass if an ancient device
known as the Tablet of Breaking was activated. This
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device had been hidden from mankind for thousands of
years, that it had passed into the hazy realm of myth and
legend. But Andreass vision had scraped away several
millennia of sand and dust from that which should have
remained hidden from the memory of man. For his vision
revealed the secret location of the Tablet of Breaking.
Although Andreas had informed Father Callumbro of
his vision, he never revealed the secret resting place of theTablet. Andreas had told Father Callumbro that he could
not even trust him one of his oldest and dearest friends
with such a dangerous secret. It would mean the end of the
world if this knowledge were to fall into the wrong hands.
And so, he vowed that he would take the secret with him to
his grave. He had then left in a terrible state, rambling likea person who had lost leave of their senses.
The meeting with Andreas had left Father Callumbro
in a dilemma, and he had come to seek my uncles advice.
He was torn between his desire to keep Andreass vision to
himself and thus not betray his friends trust, and his belief
that such a secret needed to be reported to the Church
immediately, knowing that this would result in Andreas
being investigated by the Inquisition again. After discussing
the matter late into the night, Father Callumbro decided to
follow my uncles advice and report the incident. Having
assured my uncle he would not reveal to the Churchthat he had sought his advice hence clearing my uncle
of any possible connection with Andreass vision, which
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recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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the Inquisition was sure to investigate Father Callumbro
had left.
He reported the incident the following morning. The
Church officials arrived in Dresden three days later, but by
that time Andreas had disappeared from the city. He was
never seen again.
Until today, in this cemetery on the outskirts of Wurzen.
And it looks to me as if somebody has taken Andreassvow literally dug up the graves in an attempt to find the
prophets resting place and discover what secrets were
buried with him.
Someone has tried to find the secret to the end of the
world.I knew there was going to be more to this case than I
had been told, but I wasnt expecting this. I cannot help
but feel that it is no mere coincidence that, out of all
the available Hexenjger, I was one of only two chosen
to investigate the exhumed graves. I firmly believe that
the Lords hand guided me to join the Hexenjger, guided
me to meet Armand Breteuil, who, in turn, introduced me
to Dietrich Hommel, the sole person who has been able
to provide me with information concerning my fathers
life. I do not know what the Lords design is for me, but
the events of the past month have steered me along acertain path, all leading to this point in time to Andreas
Rundsts grave.
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in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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I need you to do something for me, I whisper to the
gravedigger. I need you to go back into Wurzen and find
the nightwatchmen. Tell them to gather as many men as
they can. Then they need to get here fast!
The gravedigger digests this for a while, almost as if hes
sampling some food hes not too sure about. I can manage
that, he says finally.
Good. Now go! I need you back here as fast as your legscan carry you.
As the gravedigger shuffles off into the darkness, I
gesture for Wilhelm to come close and whisper into his
ear all that I know of Andreas Rundst. I warn him that the
graves are being exhumed by somebody hoping to find
Andreass body and discover clues that will reveal the secrethiding place of the Tablet of Breaking, and that we must do
everything within our power to stop this from happening.
Hunched in the darkness behind the tombstones,
we have one final check of our weapons. Then we begin
our silent vigil, scanning the graveyard for evidence of
movement.
In nervous anticipation I finger the wolfs-head cross-
guard of my drawn Solingen rapier. This will be the first
time I will use this blade in combat, having acquired it only
four weeks ago from one of the Brotherhood of the Cross.
But I havent abandoned my trusty Pappenheimer rapier.Its sheathed by my side, enjoying its peaceful slumber
before it may be called into action. I never thought that I
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in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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would turn into a dual wielder. Its a very difficult fighting
style to master; unconventional, to say the least, but deadly
effective. In an age dominated by swordsmen who are
masters of fighting with rapier and cape, or rapier and
main gauche, its important to seize any advantage over
your opponent. And having seen Armand Breteuil wield
his dual cavalry sabres in Schloss Kriegsberg, Im deter-
mined to master the technique. Even under Armandstutelage, however, its proving to be a difficult undertaking.
But practice makes perfect, and Im a fast learner in the art
of swordplay or so, at least, Armand tells me. Perhaps this
night might even mark the christening of my dual blade
technique.
Not long has passed before I catch movement in thecorner of my eye. Whats this? The gravedigger? Moving
through the moonlight over to my right, returning so
soon? Dont tell me hes lost his way.
Im 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 its
notthe 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 betterlook at them.
It is a man, wrapped in a cloak, and dragging a shovel.
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in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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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 hisblade 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 suchstealth that it appears to be floating through the cemetery.
It follows the undead corpse to Andreass 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 inthe darkness and scan the cemetery, searching for evidence
of movement.
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in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Barely daring to breathe for fear of being detected,
I follow Wilhelms lead and crouch further behind the
tombstone. After what seems to be an eternity, the stranger
turns back to its undead companion, points at Andreass
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
Im 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 its more prudent to wait
for the gravedigger to return with the nightwatchmen.
Theres safety in numbers, particularly when facing
what is undoubtedly a supernatural enemy. Its a shamethat Wilhelm doesnt think so.
He must be ardent for fame and glory to arrest the
stranger single-handedly. Either that, or he is overconfid-
ent 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, doesnt mean that Im 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 andcatch them off-guard. And so I remain crouched in the
darkness, peering from behind the tombstone.
Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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17
Theres 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 maingauche and catching it bythe 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 undeads 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 glowingin a soft, red light, like coals that have just been stirred in
a fire.
Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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18
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 strangers 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
Devils hordes running.
As if the situation could not get any worse, the strangerutters 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. Id get
us both killed. All I can do is wait for a window of oppor-
tunity to present itself. And when it does, I pray that thewindow doesnt come crashing down on my head just as
Im about to climb through.
The stranger crosses over to Wilhelm. It draws back its
heavy blade in preparation to cleave the Hexenjgers 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 strangers heart, and squeeze the trigger. Theres
a flash of powder and the report of my firearm, deafen-
ing in the still of the night. This is followed by a cry of
demented rage as the stranger takes the shot in the chest. Itstaggers back, clutching a hand at the wound, then removes
it and stares in morbid curiosity at its blood-stained palm.
Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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19
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.
Theres a gargled cry, a spray of blood, and a sickening
thump as Wilhelms headless body slumps to the ground.
Time freezes.
Aghast, I stare at Wilhelms lifeless form, the terrible
final seconds of his life replaying in my mind. Wilhelm wasa veteran witch hunter. How could he have been slain with
such ease? And why hadnt 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 aplan of action, I find myself lunging forward, thrusting
my Pappenheimer at the strangers 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 beingshould be stripped of its powers. And my weapons even
every pistol ball I carry have been consecrated by a priest
Copyright Stuart Daly 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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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 its a miracle my windpipe
isnt 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 butchers shop. Dropping itssword, the stranger grabs my right hand by the wrist and
forces me to raise my Pappenheimer rapier.
Caelitusmihi 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 doesnt He come to save you? Youshould 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 its useless.
All I can do is stare helplessly into the strangers blood-red
eyes. Its not long before I feel myself sliding into deaths
cold embrace. Darkness starts to take me.
Its strange, but I think I can hear distant voices. Perhaps
its 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 completedarkness.