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.

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.

The Army of the Undead

stuart daly

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.

A Random House book Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd Level 3, 100 Pacic 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 any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/ofces. National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry Author: Daly, Stuart Title: The army of the undead / Stuart Daly ISBN: 978 1 74275 055 2 (pbk) Series: Daly, Stuart. Witch hunter chronicles; 2 Target Audience: For secondary school age Subjects: Witch hunting Juvenile ction Dewey number: A823.4 Cover illustration and design by Sammy Yuen Maps by Stuart Daly and Anna Warren Internal design by Midland Typesetters Typeset in 12/16 Minion by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed in Australia by Grifn Press, an accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004 Environmental Management System printer 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 The paper this book is printed on is certied against the Forest Stewardship Council Standards. Grifn Press holds FSC chain of custody certication SGS-COC-005088. FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially benecial and economically viable management of the worlds forests.

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.

F my three little musketeers or

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.

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.

sweden RUSSIA

ENGLAND THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE

POLAND

HUNGARY

FRANCE

OTTOMAN EMPIRE

SPAIN

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.

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.

POMERANIA ENGLAND DUTCH BRANDENBURG REPUBLIC WESTPHALIA SAXONY SPANISH NETHERLANDS SILESIA

PRUSSIA POLAND

BOHEMIA WRTTEMBURG FRANCE FRANCHECOMT SWITZERLAND SAVOY THE MILANESE PIEDMONT OTTOMAN EMPIRE LORRAINE BAVARIA AUSTRIA

HUNGARY

PARMA

REPUBLIC OF VENICE

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.

N DE MO

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.

P One art
Cemetery adjoining the Church of the Three Apostles Outskirts of Wurzen, Saxony 1 April 1666, Midnight

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.

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.

ChapteR one

rawing a deep breath to steady my nerves, I pull my cloak tight around my neck, place a trembling hand on the butt of one of the intlock 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 crucixes 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 dark work, and there isnt much darker work than investigating exhumed graves in the dead of the night.

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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 swordsman 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 were not for the occasional ash 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 adversary, 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 fty 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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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 gravedigger, 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 to tolerate 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 been exhumed 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 sufce. 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 graverobbers? Not likely. They usually just steal the possessions that 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 gravediggers announcement that we have arrived at the desecrated graves. Following Wilhelms lead, the gravedigger 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 edged 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 experienced in the art of combat, and I often wonder if my fellow Hexenjger now have higher expectations of me. This is only the second mission I have ever been sent

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on. It took me over two weeks to fully recover from the injuries I sustained whilst facing the witches, the Brotherhood of the Cross and the Kings Secret in Schloss Kriegsberg. 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 amboyant ex-captain of Louis XIVs Royal Palace Cavalry had argued otherwise, insisting that it would only be a matter of time until I would be called into the eld once more, and that I needed to develop greater condence 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 in the 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 closequarters combat, such as how to use your cloak in your off-hand to ensnare an opponents blade, and how to turn a parry into a riposte guaranteed to unbalance even the most sure-footed of duellists.

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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 which grave 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 the gravedigger, trying to shed some light on the mystery. The gravedigger scratches his head, as if hes trying to prod his brain into action. The rst three burials were for locals killed by a bloody ux 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 a six-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 ux for fear of an outbreak. It was only this morning that my assistant felt well enough to return to work, and we nally had a chance to put the old man to rest. I cant remember his name, but he had the most peculiar birthmark 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 information beforehand. For now I know that these are no acts of 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 the form 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 reputedly possessed the power of divination: a prophet who could see into the future. As such, he enjoyed the patronage 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 nally 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 been woken 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 conversation with Father Giuseppe Callumbro, with whom both my uncle and Andreas were intimate friends. Withdrawing into the kitchen, I trained an ear on their conversation, and it did not take me long to learn that Father Callumbro 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 horric vision in which he had seen thousands dying of plague and war, and entire kingdoms engulfed in blazing infernos and swamped by cataclysmic oods. 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 that these 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 the Tablet. 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 like a 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 Church that he had sought his advice hence clearing my uncle of any possible connection with Andreass vision, which

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the Inquisition was sure to investigate Father Callumbro had left. He reported the incident the following morning. The Church ofcials 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 Andreass vow literally dug up the graves in an attempt to nd the prophets resting place and discover what secrets were buried with him. Someone has tried to nd 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 rmly 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 a certain path, all leading to this point in time to Andreas Rundsts grave.

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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 nd 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 nally. Good. Now go! I need you back here as fast as your legs can carry you. As the gravedigger shufes 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 nd Andreass body and discover clues that will reveal the secret hiding 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 nal check of our weapons. Then we begin our silent vigil, scanning the graveyard for evidence of movement. In nervous anticipation I nger the wolf s-head crossguard of my drawn Solingen rapier. This will be the rst 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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would turn into a dual wielder. Its a very difcult ghting style to master; unconventional, to say the least, but deadly effective. In an age dominated by swordsmen who are masters of ghting 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 determined to master the technique. Even under Armands tutelage, however, its proving to be a difcult 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 the corner 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 nding the nightwatchmen, when I catch myself. A cold chill races across my skin as I realise that its 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 gure 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.

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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 ex the ngers 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 gure, 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 oating through the cemetery. It follows the undead corpse to Andreass grave, then draws back its hood. I recoil in horror, for the second gure 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 ush 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.

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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 gure 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 shame that Wilhelm doesnt think so. He must be ardent for fame and glory to arrest the stranger single-handedly. Either that, or he is overcondent 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 and catch them off-guard. And so I remain crouched in the darkness, peering from behind the tombstone.

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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, ipping 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 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 nally dies. Wilhelm grins victoriously. Is that the best you can do? Your condence 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 re.

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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 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. Id 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 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 intlock pistol, stare down the barrel, take aim at the strangers heart, and squeeze the trigger. Theres a ash of powder and the report of my rearm, 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.

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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 nal 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 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 a plan of action, I nd 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 pistolwound. 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

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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 ee, 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 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 doesnt 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 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 ngers and I cross myself. Then I slip into complete darkness.

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