Prologue

The time has come.

As I write these lines, a storm rages through the streets of Vienna, a storm of hate and destruction. Screams echo through the city, along with other more sinister cries.

The voices of THEM.

Soon they'll be coming to get me. And perhaps that's only as it should be since it was I, after all, who brought destruction on the city.

I can hear footsteps in the courtyard. I'll hide the book and maybe he'll find it. If he's still alive, that is.

They're here. Forgive me, oh Lord, and stand by us in our hour of darkness.

Elisabeth Karrer

Vienna, Anno Domini 1704

Abitus

Tyrol,

Anno Domini 1707

I

The farmer fell to the ground face downwards and lay in the snow, breathing hard. He hadn't seen the blow coming, hadn't felt the tiniest hint it might. His assailant must be in league with the devil, if it wasn't the devil himself who had come to get him. God knows, he'd deserve it alright.

His head hurt and everything was a muffled blur - the wind howling through the trees, the gate of the derelict farm banging open and shut, the ravens cawing up above .

Birds of death, thought the farmer.

Just keep flying round up there-might be worth your while.

Then he heard the crunch of footsteps coming slowly towards him. He daren't move. He shut his eyes tight. The footsteps stopped close beside him. There was a heavy, expectant silence.

'You always meet twice in a lifetime, isn't that what they say?'

That voice. Calm, sure. He remembered it well, hoped he'd never have to hear it again.

'Go on, turn over!'

The farmer heaved himself onto his back and felt the snowflakes flutter into his face. Slowly he opened his eyelids.

Looming over him were three blurred figures. A woman, an old man-and him.

Johann List.

Rather the devil himself, groaned the farmer to himself. He sat up gingerly and rubbed the back of his head. Then he looked at Johann through squinting eyelids. 'What do you want?'

'My money.'

'What money?' The farmer felt furtively behind his back for the little iron bar that hung from his belt. 'I don't know what you're talking-'

Again he was taken unawares, hadn't seen the flick of a wrist, but there was a fierce pain now searing through his left leg. He screamed in agony and looked down at the knife sticking out of his thigh, sharp as a Turkish scimitar. The farmer recognized the knife with its decorated handle for he'd once held it in his own hand. He went to grab it but the other man was quicker. He yanked it out and held it to the farmer's throat. 'Your leg will heal but your throat won't! Where's my money?'

The farmer pressed his hand against the wound and the blood oozed from between his fingers and trickled into the snow. He was sobbing now and stammering something.

The young woman went up to Johann. 'Is that really necessary?'

'If you'd seen what I had, you'd be demanding his head, believe me. Go and fetch the things from the sledge, I'm almost finished.'

He lifted the farmer by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the front door. A moment later both men had vanished into the darkness of the house.

The stench of the old place was overpowering-a mixture of musty air, rotting food and mildew.

Just like in the prison cells. Back then.

He made a face. 'When's the last time you let some fresh air into this place?'

'What for? Keeps the plague out.' The farmer limped faster, his face still contorted in pain, but Johann grabbed him again by the scruff of his neck.

'Not so fast! Less speed more haste.'

He led Johann duly through the filthy hallway with its unfinished whitewashed walls and its heavy, black beams and low ceiling. The doors leading off of it were all shut and the windows were so small they looked more like shooting slits. The thick walls kept out every sound-too quiet, thought Johann and the stench and the dim light reminded him of a tomb.

One door stood open and as he went by he saw a little room with a made up bed in it.

'Are you expecting guests?'

'Yes, a French maid would be do nicely.'

Johann raised his knife.

The farmer shrugged his shoulders sullenly. 'Every couple of winters a cleric comes here. Only stays for a night and then he's off again-no idea where to. But he pays well so I don't ask questions.'

'So someone got away, did they?' Johann smiled, glowering. 'Other than me of course.'

The farmer looked at him, puzzled. 'What do you mean-'

Johann gave him a violent shove in the back. 'Just keep moving. Might stop you telling so many lies.'

The farmer turned into the smoke filled kitchen. The only light came from the flames of an open stove and the walls were caked with black soot and badly cracked. The smell in the room was abysmal. The floor was crusted over with mud and filth and there was rotting food and chicken feathers scattered everywhere.

The farmer limped over to the stove, took out a burning piece of tinder and lit the oil lamp. He noticed Johann's look of disgust as he glanced round the kitchen.

'What's wrong now then? Used to something better, are you?'

'That a swine like you lives in a sty like this doesn't surprise me one bit. But you're not a poor swine, are you?' Johann stared at him pointedly.

'I've got no money. Only yours, and that's not been touched.'

The two men stood facing one another, the flames from the fire flickering across their faces.

'You can hardly spend it in the middle of winter,' said Johann with a cold grin.

'It's been a tough year, List. Honestly. I was finished, that's the only reason I took your money. If I-,' the farmer cleared his throat to make his voice sound stronger, 'If I give it you back, then we'll be quits, right?'

'We'll see.'

'But-'

'Get moving!'

The farmer went into the pantry, put down the lamp and bent down over an iron ring that was inserted in the floor. The room was bare except for a couple of sacks of rotten potatoes and a few mouldy loaves of bread.

The farmer yanked on the ring. A trap door opened and there was a black hole with worn steps leading down into the darkness. Johann caught a whiff of dank, musty air.

'After you,' said the farmer.

Johann grabbed him and shoved him down the steps. The farmer fell and there was a crash and a loud scream-the man must have fallen onto his injured leg.

Good, thought Johann. He seized the oil lamp and climbed slowly down into the darkness.

II

The underground room was about the size of the little kitchen but, unlike the rest of the house, it was remarkably tidy. The well tamped floor was clean and the stone slabs on the walls looked as if they'd been polished. A large cross made of dark, shiny wood had been fixed to the wall between the stone slabs. It dominated the bare room, looming satanically.

The air was close and heavy and Johann could hardly breathe. The cross itself and the stone slabs surrounding it were spattered with drops of blood, glowing russet red in the glow of the oil lamp. He felt with his fingers across the uneven surface of the slabs, across the ruts that were almost like scratches .

Slowly Johann turned round to face the farmer. 'Did you bring them down here before you murdered them then?'

'Murdered? Who? What are talking about?' The man's nervous grin gave away the lie.

Johann felt a flash of anger.

The pit, the stench of decay .

His fingers tightened around the handle of his knife. Then slackened again. Eyes, staring at him between the dead leaves, fractured, pleading, dead .

With a quick, almost imperceptible motion, Johann grabbed the farmer by the throat and forced him up against the cross. 'You're joking aren't you, asking such a question?' he hissed. 'I saw them, all of them, back there in the forest, in the pit!'

The farmer squirmed under his grasp. 'But, I-'

'Children even! My God, there's nothing to stop me killing you right now!'

'No, please! Please don't kill me!' gasped the farmer.

Johann squeezed the man's throat more tightly. 'I've killed more decent men than you. Why should I spare you?'

'Have-mercy-' gurgled the farmer.

Johann thought of the people who had suffered in agony there in the darkness. His fingers tightened around the...