The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted

“They need to put in an escalator,” I said between deep breaths.

Lucía looked back and gave me a frowny headshake. She was also the only one that wasn’t breathing hard.

“An elevator would be fine too,” I replied evenly.

“Excusez-moi,” we heard from behind us.

We moved aside to allow a couple of middle-aged locals past. They smiled and nodded as they motored on ahead of us, seemingly immune to the rigors of the stairway and the thin mountain air. The locals were easy to distinguish from the camera-toting tourists. They were all white men, mostly middle aged, in grey colored clothes that looked both itchy and hand made. Monks of some sort, we all assumed.

“Boomers just paced us bro,” I said to Jordan.

“I’m going slow for your benefit,” he replied.

The breathless way he said it made me doubt his sincerity, but I couldn’t spare the oxygen to argue. We’d already passed the village terrace where the monks lived in their quaint little stone houses that were built up flat against the walls of the cliff. The second terrace is where the Chapel of Notre Dame stood, and we were getting there, one agonizing step at a time. Lucía kept stopping to glare down at us until we caught up.

“You can carry me if I’m slowing you down,” I said, barely getting the last word out before needing air.

“Trust me, I’m tempted,” she replied.

It was approaching midday and getting warm. Not Roseville warm, but I never climbed up a thousand steps back home. We’d all worn the dirty clothes we’d had on the night before – except Marc who’d gotten up early and made himself presentable. He was in cargo pants and a blue polo shirt. The shirt was probably a little too tight, but he had the right anatomy to pull it off. We looked like three homeless people and a J. Crew model.

“I wish I had some ice cream,” I said.

“Or a cold soda with ice,” Marc replied.

“Oh, a root beer float,” I said, then crinkled my nose and added, “Do they make ice cream that’s lactose free? For those with, um, sensitive digestive tracts, or intolerances or whatever.”

Lucía sighed as she stood there with her hands on her hips, waiting for us to catch up. “Yes, they do.”

“Fine, we’ll take a round of those then,” I said. “We just need to find a vender.”

“I’d settle for a beer and a siesta,” Marc said.

“Don’t monks make beer?” Jordan asked no one in particular. Marc perked up at that thought. “Maybe that’s what those monks are rushing towards.”

We reached the top of the landing, which opened into a flagstone courtyard and a series of two and three story, story buildings. The color palate was tan – tan bricks, tan flagstones, tan statues of the Virgin Mary, tan staircases, and tan railings.

“This place is so strait,” Jordan said.

“I think it looks good,” Marc said. “Beige is classy.”

“That just breaks my heart,” Jordan said. “Beige is actually a gay litmus test.”

“You’ll find your match eventually,” Marc smiled. “He just won’t be able to measure up to me unfortunately.”

Jordan gave Marc a quick visual once over and added, “I with that statement was incorrect.”

Colors aside, the buildings were legit works of art. High stone arches and intricately carved window ledges, tall thin towers of various sizes and designs and tall walls topped with religious statues and Christian crosses. As with the lower residences, these buildings were built right up against the natural walls of the cliff.

It only took a few seconds of glancing around to find what we were looking for. It was actually hard to miss, what with all the tourists pointing and gawking at it. A few feet below the roofline and to the left the heavy wooden door of the Chapel, a rusted sword, attached to an equally rusted chain, was buried almost to the hilt in the center of a long gash in the solid stone face of the cliff. An iron pin was stuck in the wall a few feet away from the sword, and the rusty chain linked the sword’s handle to the iron pin.

“I feel like I need a tetanus shot just looking at that thing,” Jordan said.

“Can Excalibur rust?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Lucìa said. Her voice sounded dejected.

“So, what’s the plan?” I asked.

“We need climbing gear for that,” Lucìa said.

I’m not pulling a sword out of a wall while holding onto a rope.

“It’s all in the bag,” Marc replied. “Rope, anchors and hammer.”

“The bag I’ve been carrying,” Jordan added.

Marc smiled and said, “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“We can’t scale a wall in front of all these tourists and monks,” Lucía explained. “We’ll need to come back after dark.”

There’s no way in hell I’m climbing up all those stairs again. Think, think, think...

“I bet I could reach it from the roof of the church,” I said. “Why don’t we just do it right now?”

“In broad daylight?” Marc scoffed.

I shrugged and asked, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“We could be arrested and sent to some French prison?” Marc answered.

“If we say Kenzie is the reincarnation of King Arthur and we’re on a grand quest, we’d get sent to the nuthouse instead,” Jordan replied. “I bet the foods better there.”

Lucìa started to answer, but I didn’t wait around to hear what she said. The door to the chapel was open and I just walked on in. The lighting was dim compared to the sunny exterior, and I had to squint at first to see clearly. The interior was lit by little wall sconces with red glass fixtures, and the light was a reddish hue from the colored glass shades.

Darkly stained wood pews lined walls of the chapel, and a narrow walkway ran down the middle of the church, ending at the front of an altar. The honey-colored wood of the altar was intricately carved with various religious scenes along the front and sides and was topped with some sort of fancy white tablecloth. Built into the wall behind the alter was a triangular wooden structure that matched the altar in color and carvings, and at the top of that was a statue of the Virgin Mary, hewed from some sort of black stone.

My friends shuffled in behind me, and we took in the sights silently for a few moments. We weren’t alone in that. A few little clumps of tourists were inside as well, and they pointed and spoke in hushed tones as they looked about the place.

The ceiling was a massive, vaulted arch, and railed walkways ran along both sides of the second story. Candle holders and places to kneel and pray were set up at intervals on both stories. A hallway to the left of the alter led to an open doorway.

“Where do you think that leads,” I asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Lucìa answered.

We walked through the stone archway and found a narrow stairwell leading up in a spiral pattern. We skipped right past the second floor and tramped up the last flight of stairs up to the third-floor landing which ended at a single door, secured with an old-fashioned lock with a keyhole that required a skeleton key.

“Anyone know how to pick a lock?” I asked.

The siblings shook their heads, but Jordan said, “I can pick this lock.”

Before I could call his bluff, he stepped forward and threw a kick Cops-style to the right of the doorknob. The door burst open, and sunlight poured through the opening.

Jordan looked extremely proud of himself. “Piece of cake,” he said.

“Kicking in doors and carrying bags,” I said. “You really do have a purpose.”

“Are we going to stand around all day talking about locks and just asking to get caught?” Marc asked. He motioned forward with his chin. “Let’s go.”

“I kind of like it when he’s bossy,” Jordan said.

“That makes one of us,” Lucìa said. “But he’s right. Those monks strike me as the nosy type and Jordan’s lock picking wasn’t subtle.”

We stepped out into the sunshine and Marc tried to close the door behind us. It flapped right back open.

Jordan shrugged. “Yeah, my method sometimes ruins the door.”

The roof was flat, with a stone rail just high enough to trip over. The view beyond that was a long drop into a sea of trees. We approached the edge and peered over.

“The angle is going to be a problem,” Marc said.

The sword was at about shin height and a couple of feet past the rail. I’d definitely have to step over the railing just to reach it. I noticed a carved feature on the wall I could stand on, and if I held on to the chain and stuck one foot on the face of the cliff...

“Have you had a recent tetanus shot, Kenz?” Jordan asked. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking. Either way, he had a point. The handle looked as dangerous as a rusty nail.

“We’ll need the rope,” Marc said to Jordan. “I can climb out first and to make sure it’s safe.”

“No, I’ve got this,” I said, trying my hardest to inject much more confidence into my voice than I actually felt.

It’s the same height as the hotel balcony, and angry French police won’t be yelling at me.

“Someone’s going to see us if we turn this into a circus,” I continued.

“Which is why we need to come back tonight,” Marc said.

He didn’t wait for a reply though. Instead, he started looping a slip knot around my waist. The boy was obviously learning. When he was done, he pulled me close and kissed me on the lips. “You know how you’re gonna do this?”

I found that I was having trouble speaking, so I just nodded.

“Be careful,” he said. After another kiss, he looped the free end of the rope around the railing a few times.

Jordan held the rope and Marc held my hand as I stepped over the railing and onto the ledge beyond the rail. I grabbed the chain with my left hand, took a deep breath and gave Marc’s hand a squeeze. He released it and I wrapped both hands around the chain. I found a decent foothold in the rock and stepped down onto one the carved features on the Chapel wall. This put the sword at about chest level and slightly to my left. My knuckles were white from gripping the chain ridiculously hard, and my heart was doing its best to burst from my chest Alien-style.

I reached out and grabbed the hilt of the sword. It was cold and gritty from the rust. I gave it a pull, but nothing happened. I found a new foothold for my left foot so I could take a wider stance and pulled harder this time, but still, it didn’t budge.

I wasn’t expecting angels singing or magic sparkles necessarily, but I did expect... something. Maybe this is just a rusty old sword.

I looked up at my friends and saw disappointment on all of their faces.

“Maybe it’s just really stuck in there tight,” Marc said. “Let me try.”

I nodded and climbed back up to the ledge and Marc grabbed my hand and pulled me over the rail.

“You did good, Kenz,” Jordan said.

“I can cross ‘scale the wall of a historical landmark’ off my bucket list,” I said.

Marc loosened the slip knot and I stepped out of the loop. Marc stepped back in, and I cinched it around his waist and finished it off with a slap on his butt.

“Go get ’em tiger,” I said.

He winked and stepped out over the ledge. It wasn’t till then that I realized that we’d attracted a small crowd down below us. The tourists pointed and snapped pictures, while the locals in the home-made clothes just watched.

“We’ve been spotted,” I said, pointing.

“Yeah, we’re totally getting arrested,” Jordan said. “We are seriously playing up the King Arthur rhetoric. I’m too pretty for jail.”

If Marc noticed the group forming below, it didn’t seem to bother him. He took the same steps that I did to get into position, just at a much faster pace. And then something strange happened. As soon as he touched the sword, about half the rust just fell right off the hilt and blade – revealing clean, shining steel underneath the outer crust.

There were gasps from the crowd and the looks on the local’s faces changed from placidity to mild astonishment. I watched as the muscles on Marc’s left arm went taut, and for a brief moment it looked like the sword was going to come free as an inch or two of blade slowly slid out of the solid rock wall. And then the sword’s progress just ground to a halt. Marc let go of the chain and grabbed the sword with both hands. He slid his feet up the wall till they were just under the sword, and then pulled so hard the veins suck out in his neck. Still, the sword didn’t budge another inch.

Marc took a few deep breathes before looking up at us. “This really is Durendal, but it’s not Excalibur.” He was up the wall and over the ledge before any of could think of a reply. “Hermana, you need to be the one to retrieve it.”

Lucìa looked confused. “Why me?” she asked, but Marc was already looping the rope around her. “I’ll explain later. Jordan, make sure no one comes through the door. Punch first and ask questions later.” He grabbed the rope and looked at me. “You got your dagger with you?” I nodded and pulled it out of the sheath on my back. “Good, because we’re not alone.”

I looked down again, but I didn’t see any supermodels or random wild animals, just average looking tourists, and locals. Lucìa didn’t bother trying to climb down into position. She just leapt over the rail and grabbed hold of the chain in midair. The crowd oohed and ahhed.

Showoff.

She swung down into position, grabbed the sword, and in one seemingly effortless movement, pulled Durendal free. The sword initially glowed a blinding blue and whatever rust was still clinging to the sword sloughed off in a cloud of grainy dust. Lucìa flicked her wrist and the sword sliced through the chain halfway up its length. She grabbed the loose strand of chain an instant before falling.

Gasps came up from the crowd below. It was then that I realized that two of the tourists that I could have sworn were a couple of elderly white women in slacks and corduroy shirts were actually young East Indian women in skinny jeans and tight, short sleeved black blouses. By the time my mind registered what this meant, there were two piles of clothes on the ground next to the surprised and shrieking tourists, and a couple of large grey birds were rocketing up towards Lucìa.

Lucìa labored to make her way up the wall with a sword in one hand, and the chain in the other. I reached over the rail, grabbed her wrist, and pulled. As she surged past me, I swiped down with my dagger and almost took the head off the bigger of the two birds. Both pulled up in midair squawking in anger, and I swung at them a few more times to keep them back. As I backed away from the edge, the birds followed me up and clawed at my eyes, but a big swipe from Lucía’s new longsword sent the birds scattering back downward.

I heard a commotion behind us and turned just in time to watch Jordan use a looping overhand right to drop an armed man that was halfway through the stairwell door. Marc retrieved the man’s pistol, and he kept the man covered until Jordan confirmed the dude was out. After Jordan fished a pistol out of the depths of our backpack, we sprinted down the two flights of stairs to ground level.

“How’d they find us?” Lucìa asked her brother when we reached the bottom.

“They must have had the Citadel staked out,” he replied.

Lucia’s face screwed-up in confusion and she asked, “How would they know to be there?” I saw awareness dawn on her face, and she asked, “Who told you about Roland’s tomb?”

Marc looked like someone had just punched him in the stomach.

“Is there only one exit?” Jordan asked, pointing towards the front door.

My eyes tracked to where bro was pointing. Two men stood on either side of the door, each holding nasty-looking automatic weapons. I heard women’s voices drifting in from outside. The voices seemed familiar for some reason. Suddenly, I broke out in a sweat and the room started to spin. If there hadn’t been a wall to lean on, I’m pretty sure my friends would have been pulling me up off the floor.