Hammer of the Witch Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

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  Copyright

  Hammer of the Witch

  By Dakota Chase

  Repeating History: Book Two

  History isn’t dead when you’re living it.

  Aston and Grant made a serious mistake a while back when they set fire to their teacher’s office—a teacher who is secretly the legendary wizard Merlin. Now they must travel back in time to retrieve the artifacts they destroyed—and they’re about to find out how the Dark Ages earned its name.

  They’re on a mission to acquire the Malleus Maleficarum, the book used by the Inquisition to arrest, torture, and execute witches. In medieval Germany, they’ll be surrounded by danger in a time when anyone could be accused and face horrible prison conditions and an awful death. Will they be able to avoid the watchful eyes of the Inquisitors, retrieve the book, and return to their own time?

  Chapter One

  “THIS BOOK is one of the most blood-soaked missives ever forged by human hand.” Professor Ambrosius held his hands about six inches apart. “It was no bigger than this, but its impact on humanity was devastating. Thousands upon thousands, some say millions, died horrible deaths in part because of the words between its covers.”

  I frowned and glanced at Grant. His expression seemed to mirror my own confusion. “Why would you want a thing like that? I mean, if it’s so bad, isn’t it better if it’s gone?”

  Grant nodded. “Ash is right. It sounds deplorable, sir.”

  Grant is the only one who calls me “Ash.” It’s short for Aston. I hate it, but not as much as “Ass,” which is what some other kids at school call me. Grant and I are friends—sort of—but I still feel like clocking him now and then. Like right now, even when agreeing with me, Grant managed to kiss ass. Sir? Who called teachers “sir” anymore?

  Professor Ambrosius, known as Merlin to at least two of his students—myself and my friend Grant—scowled at me. “Have you learned nothing yet, boy?”

  Learned? Sure. I’ve learned a lot, actually. Like accidentally setting fire to your history professor’s office and destroying his ridiculously huge private collection of historical artifacts has consequences. I also learned those consequences were especially wicked when said professor’s last name was Ambrosius and first name was Merlin—as in King Arthur’s Merlin, the most powerful magician to ever draw breath.

  Grant and I started the fire while we were in the middle of a disagreement. Okay, maybe it was more like a scuffle. Fine, if you want to be technical, it was a fight. We didn’t like each other much then and were trying to bash each other’s heads in when we accidentally splashed water into an electrical socket. The result was a shower of sparks that ignited a fire.

  We escaped through a window, singed but not burned, which is more than I can say for Merlin’s artifacts. Almost nothing survived the fire. Grant and I were sure we were going to jail for arson or destruction of property, and if Meek, the headmaster at the Stanton School for Boys, had had his way, I’m sure we’d both be rotting in Cellblock D right now. Instead, Merlin stepped in and gave us a choice. Go to jail, or go back in time and retrieve the items we’d destroyed.

  You read that right. I said “back in time.”

  We’d thought he was kidding, you know, trying in some lame, old-guy way to scare us. We thought that right up until the moment he sent us back to ancient Egypt and dumped us on King Tutankhamen’s doorstep to fetch an amulet called the Eye of Ra.

  I’d also learned not to talk back to Merlin. If I pissed him off, he could wiggle his little finger and give me a donkey tail or ostrich feet, neither of which would be a good look for me. “Um, I guess that was a stupid question?”

  “Quite.” Merlin looked to Grant. “Would you care to explain to Mr. Walsh why it is not best for my copy of the Malleus Maleficarum to remain a pile of ash?”

  Grant swallowed visibly and nodded. “Because those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.”

  I should’ve known. It was one of Merlin’s favorite quotes. Actually, Merlin couldn’t be too upset with me—he’d used my actual last name. Usually he just called me Mr. Uh, a nickname I’d earned during my first five minutes in his history class. He’d asked my name, and I stammered “Uh….” From then on, I was Mr. Uh whenever he was ticked off at me, which, I admit, was most of the time.

  I nodded. “I understand, sir.” Never hurts to throw in a “sir” or “ma’am” when speaking with adults. They like that sort of thing. “So, what is it, this malleable whatchamacallit?”

  Merlin’s blue eyes blazed brightly, then narrowed to near slits, a sure sign he was annoyed. “Malleus Maleficarum. It’s Latin and translates to Hammer of the Witch. It’s a manual—of sorts.”

  “A manual?” I cocked my head. “You mean like a video game guide?”

  Merlin blinked at me as if shocked I’d come up with a logical comparison. Actually, I was a little surprised at me too.

  “Yes, Mr. Walsh, that’s exactly right. Just as a video game guide lists the rules of the game and gives players tips and tricks needed to win, this book purports to offer a definitive definition of witchcraft, including how to determine if the accused is a witch, how to elicit a confession, and the appropriate punishments for those found guilty.”

  Grant tried unsuccessfully to stifle a snort and cringed a little under Merlin’s answering glare. “But witches aren’t real!”

  Merlin’s voice dropped an octave. “Oh, I see. Not real, eh? And what about wizards? Am I real, boy?”

  As if to remind us of how utterly and completely real he was, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed inside the classroom. A small cloud formed, and rain poured down on the potted plant he kept on the windowsill. He flicked his little finger and—it was only by sheer force of will that I didn’t glance at Grant’s butt, looking for the sudden appearance of a donkey tail—the rain stopped, the cloud dissipating.

  Grant pressed his point, and I thought for sure there would be a tail in his near future. “But there’s only one of you, Mr. Ambrosius. If witches were real, there would be tons of them around, right? I mean, they’d be all over the place, but there aren’t. How do you explain nobody knowing about them?”

  Merlin smirked at him. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  Surprisingly, I knew that quote. It was from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The only reason I knew this was because we were assigned to read it for English class last year, and so, of course, I had watched an old Mel Gibson movie version instead. I passed the test we were given on it—barely—but the line stuck with me, so I count it as a win.

  “Shakespeare,” I said in my most haughty voice. “He means we don’t know everything, and we learn new stuff all the time. You know, like once we thought the earth was flat, but now we have 3D movies in IMAX. Or something.”

  Like I said,
I barely passed the test.

  “So, witches are real?” Grant scratched his head, and a frown line creased his forehead.

  I piped up again. Honestly, I just can’t seem to learn when to keep my big, fat mouth shut. “Sure, but they’d probably be rare—just like you’re the only wizard we’ve ever met or heard of, right?”

  Merlin arched an eyebrow, and the tiniest of smiles tilted his lips. “There is, indeed, only one of me.”

  “Besides, even if witches are real, that doesn’t mean they’re evil. They could use their powers for good, right? Like be healers and stuff.”

  Merlin’s smile grew into more of a smirk. “Perhaps there is hope for you after all, Mr. Walsh.”

  “Hope for me after all. Hear that? I win.” I grinned and elbowed Grant.

  Grant yelped and then poked his own bony elbow into my ribs. “It wasn’t a competition.”

  “So says the guy who lost.”

  A low growl from Merlin cut us off as effectively as throwing a switch. Our mouths clamped shut with audible clacks so quickly we were lucky we didn’t bite off our tongues.

  “As I said, you, Mr. Uh—astonishingly enough—are correct. Having magic does not equate being evil. Similarly, belief in a different deity, possessing a dissimilar value system, speaking a foreign language, wearing unusual clothing, or possessing manners alien to those with which we, ourselves, are most familiar does not make one evil.” He exhaled a long, drawn-out sigh that sounded weary and sad. “That is not to say evil does not exist in this world, both past and present. It most definitely does. I fear what you witness during your trials to reacquire the Malleus Maleficarum may certainly qualify as such.”

  By “reacquire” Merlin meant “steal,” of course. His reasoning was, since he was the latest legitimate owner of the articles, it wasn’t immoral for us to take them. Even I could see gaping holes in his logic, but I wasn’t about to argue with him. I had no inclination to test his patience, or his promise that refusal would mean going to jail for arson.

  I also didn’t miss his use of the word “trials.” It sounded ominous and creepy to me. What sort of trial was he talking about, exactly? Didn’t they put people on trial for witchcraft back then?

  The opportunity to ask was missed because without saying another word, Merlin’s lips began to move, shaping the spell that would send Grant and I back into the past. A familiar sensation of vertigo hit me as the room began to spin, quickly gaining momentum until everything around me was a blur of color. Lights began to flash, blinding me. The thunderous sound of rushing wind was all I could hear.

  Then everything went suddenly silent and black.

  Chapter Two

  WHEN THE blackness cleared and my head stopped spinning, I realized Ash and I had been dumped in the middle of a field. A farm, actually, if the neat rows of cabbages and the more unidentifiable vegetables and the soldier-straight lines of corn were any indication.

  I tried to think, to gain my bearings. There was a farmhouse on the far side of the field. From where I sat in the dirt, I could see there was nothing even vaguely modern about it. The walls looked rough and whitewashed, and the roof seemed to be nothing but thin logs lashed together and covered with mud.

  “Oh, my aching ass.” Ash’s moan drew my attention. “I landed on a pile of freaking rocks. Look! I cut my hand. Can I sue Merlin for, I don’t know, negligent navigation or something?”

  I rolled my eyes and then plucked a sharp rock from under my own bottom. “Don’t be stupid. Your hand is barely bleeding. Man up, and let’s figure out when and where we are.”

  “Hey, it’s an open wound. What if I get the black plague or something?”

  “Then you won’t need to worry about suing anybody for anything. You’ll be dead in a week.”

  “Did I ever tell you what an ass you are?”

  “All the time. Come on, get up. Let’s head over to the farmhouse and see what’s what.” I pushed myself to my feet and tried to brush the dirt off my clothing.

  Which definitely wasn’t the school uniform I’d put on that morning. Merlin had dressed us in brown trousers made out of some sort of rough woven fabric and shirts that felt—and wrinkled—like a cheap blend of cotton and linen. Our feet were clad in soft black leather boots with hard soles that had no buttons or zippers on them, but seemed to be made to be pulled on. Mine were comfortable for all they were ugly. I wrinkled my nose and plucked in despair at the poor quality and even poorer condition of the clothing.

  I like a neat appearance. So sue me.

  Ash heaved himself to his feet and used his shirttail to wipe the blood and dirt from his palm. He was still muttering about contagions and plague in whatever hellhole Merlin had dropped us in.

  “Jeez, Ash, chill. We’ll head to the farmhouse and get some water to wash it off. It’ll be fine.”

  “I suppose we’re in medieval Germany. That’s where Merlin said the Malleable Marshmallow was, right?”

  “Malleus Maleficarum. Can’t you even pretend to listen once in a while?”

  “Whatever. My point is there probably aren’t any antibiotics here. So if I get an infection, I’m screwed.”

  I ground my teeth. Seriously, Ash could be a total pain in the ass about the smallest, stupidest things. He could also be kind of sweet and totally hot. I was usually torn between punching him in the face and kissing him. The jury was still out on what the choice would be today. “We’re not going to be here long enough for that to be a problem. This isn’t a valuable piece of jewelry or anything. It’s a book, and it’s only about the size of my hand. We get in, we take the book, and the spell will have us back in time for supper.”

  “Except we don’t know where it is, yet.”

  “And standing here in this field isn’t going to get us any answers.”

  “How exactly do you plan on getting those answers? Do you speak German?”

  “No. I barely speak English. But it doesn’t matter. Remember? Merlin’s spell enables us to speak and understand the local language.”

  “Oh, right. I almost forgot.” I hated admitting it to Ash, and I mentally slapped myself on the forehead. That particular advantage of the spell Merlin used to send us back in time was ingenious. It would’ve been so much harder if we had to keep playing charades with everyone. “Yeah. I guess we’d look pretty ridiculous asking where the bathrooms are, huh?”

  Ash plucked at his pant leg, which was roomy enough to fit both of us. “Seriously? More ridiculous than we already look? I don’t think it’s possible.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, like you’re a regular fashionista back home.”

  Ash chuckled and then shaded his eyes with his hand. “Looks like a farmhouse over there. Guess we should head in that direction and see if anyone knows anything about the Malleable Magnificent.”

  “Malleus Maleficarum.”

  “Whatever. Know-it-all.”

  “Hey, I figured it might be a good idea if one of us actually listened to Merlin. Come on, let’s get moving.” I strode off, trying not to trample the fat heads of cabbages poking out of the ground.

  The place sure didn’t smell like I thought a farm would. It smelled a lot like a pile of damp, yucky leaves you might find after a hard rain—if a horse had taken a dump on it. In other words, it stank.

  As we got closer to the farmhouse, I could see more details and wasn’t impressed by any of them. The house itself wasn’t built like houses in our time. It had a rough quality to it, reminding me of a homebuilding TV show I once saw where people were plopped in the middle of nowhere and left to survive on their own. The house looked a little like the hut one of the guys built.

  A pigpen was set up nearby. It held a huge sow and a jumble of squealing piglets. A couple of oxen grazed in a corral next to a barn that was even more roughshod than the house. I could see gaping holes between the wall boards, and the straw roof didn’t look very sturdy.

  Goats wandered around the yard, leaving piles of pellet droppings all over the
place. A rooster eyed us from his perch on the pigsty fence and looked about as pleased to see me as I was to see him. Meaning not very.

  I hated roosters. Maybe not hate—that’s a really strong word. More like detested with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. When I was five, my mom took me to a petting zoo. There was a rooster there too—a one-eyed demon of a rooster that chased me from one end of the enclosure to the other, pecking at my legs. That ugly bastard haunted my nightmares for years afterward.

  The mutual staring contest between the rooster and me was broken when Ash jabbed his elbow into my side. “Hey, Grant, look!”

  When I followed his line of sight, I noticed what he had—there was a girl standing in the yard behind the house. She was at a stone well and in the process of drawing up a bucket of water. I could see the clear liquid sloshing over the side. The girl wore a loose-fitting, faded blue dress with billowing sleeves, with a dark red apron tied over it and a large pouch tied to her waist. The dress only reached about midcalf, and I could see she wore some sort of close-fitting long underwear on her legs. Her feet were clad in sturdy black boots.

  She looked up, and I know she was surprised when she saw us because she lost her grip on the bucket. It tipped over, spilling water onto her skirt and the ground. She danced back a step, swatting at her drenched skirt. “Oh, look what you’ve done! I’m soaked to the skin!”

  I guess she was speaking German, although I understood every word perfectly. So did Ash, evidently, and being, well, Ash, he reacted accordingly. He yelled.

  “Us? We didn’t do anything, sister. You’re the one who spilled it.”

  I had to give the girl kudos. She wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by Ash. “You stupid boys! What are you doing trampling through our vegetables?”

  It seemed prudent for me to speak up before Ash gave the girl reason to feed us to the rooster. “Look, we’re sorry. We didn’t actually have a choice, and we really did try not to step on the plants. I’m Grant, and this is Ash.”

  “I’m Brida Bauer.” She gave a rather stiff, awkward curtsy, which was understandable since her skirts probably weighed a ton now that they were soaked with water. Not to mention cold—the weather was chilly. Without a coat, I could feel the bite of the wind.