Witch Finder

by C. L. Werner

  Wizards and witch hunters were uneasy allies, their mutual fear and loathing too great for either to ignore. But, standing before the obscenity that had once been Baron von Gotz, it was enough for Thulmann that the sorcerer was human.

  The unclean one hesitated as its bilious eyes glowered at the armed men arrayed against it. The daemon’s mouth dropped open as it slobbered a guttural noise that sounded too much like ‘traitors’ to be coincidental. It surged forward and, from its mutilated belly, tiny shapes burst forth, miniature horrors much like itself, spilling down the steps like a tide of slime, capering and squealing as they bounded across the stairs. Thulmann pointed a pistol at one of the gibbering imps, exultant when the bullet exploded it into a splatter of muck and excrement. A moment later, Tuomas fired his weapon and another nurgling exploded.

  ‘Kill the small ones.’ Thulmann shouted. ‘One scratch from their claws will kill just as surely.’ Thulmann fired his other pistol, then drew his sword as the creatures swept forward, slashing at them, hearing their pained squeal as their diseased limbs were cut away, as their pus-filled bellies were split open. All about him, the other men desperately hacked at the daemonic vermin, screaming out as diseased claws broke past their defences and tore into their flesh.

  Above it all, the unclean one waddled forward, opening its gigantic maw to spew a stream of stinking liquid corruption into the armoured figure of a soldier. The halberdier shrieked as the steaming green filth sizzled upon his armour, gnawing through his flesh. He toppled forward, his weapon clattering across the floor as the unclean one’s vomit hungrily dissolved his very substance. A foul liquid laughter rumbled from the daemon, its swollen head mocking the men desperately struggling to stave off the assault of its nurglings.

  All was carnage as Furchtegott emerged from his chambers. As the screams reached his ears, as he saw the fleeing crush of bodies filling the corridors of the castle, the wizard knew there could be only one cause. Baron von Gotz had decided to ignore the advice of his physician and meet his guests. Furchtegott cursed his own stupidity for waiting so long to escape. Even now, the abomination that von Gotz had become was prowling through his castle, killing Morr only knew how many. And, even worse, leaving others alive to bear witness to the obscene consequences of the wizard’s spells. Furchtegott could almost feel the flames of a witch hunter’s pyre slithering up his legs.

  But they would have to catch him first, and Furchtegott was determined to make that as difficult as possible. He firmed his grip upon the heavy leather bag he carried, his spell books and the rarest of his material components safely concealed within. He had cast aside his golden mantle, assuming a silk tunic and leather breeches, polished black boots with silver buckles and a shapeless velveteen hat. Amidst the finery of the baron’s shrieking guests, the wizard would become just another face in the mob.

  Furchtegott stepped from the doorway, into the tide of panicking humanity. He could dimly hear the sounds of combat above the screams and cries. It seemed a few valiant foes were trying to make a stand against von Gotz in the main hall. Furchtegott silently wished them luck, he himself having done everything he could to kill the abomination. The wizard joined the exodus swirling around him, the mass of frightened men and women fleeing toward the servant’s wing and the kitchens. It was as good a direction as any, and there was a small side entrance near the kitchens through which stores were brought into the castle. The little side door would make an undignified but useful exit.

  Even as such cheering thoughts occurred, Furchtegott’s hopes of escape were dashed. More screams sounded from up ahead. The fleeing mob became frozen as those at the front of the pack tried to turn back and those behind them tried to press forward. The wizard struggled to see beyond their bodies, to discover what was happening. There was no possibility it could be von Gotz, even if he had managed to overcome the forces fighting him in the main hall. Then the wizard saw an arm covered in fur and clutching a bloodied meat cleaver. One of the bodies obscuring his view was cut down. As she fell, her hideous killer stood revealed.

  It was a giant rat. An enormous rodent standing upon its hind legs, wearing a ragged leather tunic and wielding a butcher’s blade. As if the very existence of such a monster were not horror enough, the creature’s furry hide was torn and mangled, ripped apart by fangs and blades. From its throat, a dagger protruded and its eyes were lifeless orbs of emptiness. The ratman was dead, its carcass animated by some abominable will. Beyond it, Furchtegott saw a fleeting glimpse of other zombie creatures, some as verminous as the first, others the mutilated husks of men. The walking dead slowly, emotionlessly and inexorably hacked their way through the crowd.

  Furchtegott reached into his travelling bag, removing the Das Buch die Unholden. In scouring its pages for the spells that damned von Gotz with something more horrible than Stir blight, the wizard had seen many rites and incantations related to the living dead: spells to summon them from their graves, and spells to control them. The wizard’s frantic hands flipped through the pages. As he did so, a terrible chill seemed to wash over him. The world seemed to grow darker, reality twisting into a soundless shadow.

  The wizard looked up from the abhorrent tome and found himself staring into the eyes of ageless evil. Furchtegott could feel the malevolence emanating from the tall, gaunt shadow, feel the ancient hate of all things living burning in its eyes. The vampire exposed its fangs in a bestial snarl. A clawed hand rose, a talon pointed. In a moment of ultimate horror, Furchtegott realised the awful spectre had come to the castle for one purpose. It had come for him.

  Furchtegott clutched the dread book to his chest, somehow sensing that the vampire would not risk using its unholy magic upon him while he still held the book. But that grace did not extend to the cowering masses between him and the necrarch. Even as the zombies began to redouble their attack with frantic haste, Furchtegott could feel the winds of magic shifting as the vampire drew upon their darkest energies.

  The wizard turned, his voice roaring, one hand clutching Das Buch die Unholden to his breast, the other gesturing madly as he wove the heavy substance of the sorcerous wind Chamon to his will. The crowd pressing upon him from behind suddenly fell, wilting to the floor as their limbs became as heavy as gold. Furchtegott dare not risk looking back to see what fell power the vampire was unleashing upon the mob, but sprinted back down the corridor, leaping from one prone, screaming victim of his magic to another as if they were a living carpet.

  Sibbechai watched the wizard flee, snarling. With a gesture, the vampire unleashed the dark magic it had summoned to itself, sending a withering spectral wave into the mob. As the ghostly light struck living flesh, the victims screamed and fell, their hearts bursting within their chests. The vampire was heedless of the energy it now expended, restraint the farthest thing from its mind. It willed the ghastly force to grow, to hasten its harvest of shrieking souls. It had seen the mortal fool who dared violate the vampire’s grimoire with his filthy touch. Sibbechai would pay him the price for such audacity, when it strangled the wizard with his own dripping entrails.

  As the wall of screaming flesh withered before it, the vampire swept forward, gliding amidst the havoc like a hungry vulture. Its shadow-like form flitted across broken corpses and twitching bodies, its eyes fixed upon the fleeing wizard as Furchtegott fled back down the corridor. The vampire snarled a command to its zombies, ordering them to follow after it. But Sibbechai had little need of such miserable slaves. It had seen the terror in the wizard’s face. There was little it had to fear from such a man. Sibbechai spread its arms wide, willing its body to change. The loathsome substance of its form twisted and contorted, bones snapping and remoulding themselves. Soon, where once the vampire’s gaunt frame had stood, a great bat hovered. Its grotesque face spread in a shrill shriek and then it streaked down the hallway, a black blur of shadow and menace.

  The wizard’s flight carried him to the great hall, but no further. Furchtegott froze as he saw the carnage he had only heard before. S
oldiers struggled against hideous, decaying imps, their rotting fangs and diseased claws caked in blood and filth. The immense hulk of von Gotz lashed out at a dozen adversaries, massive claws scraping the marble walls when his clumsy blows failed to connect. A wizard of the Bright College slashed at the horrible daemon with a burning blade, while a huge giant in the armour and surcoat of a Black Guardsman hacked at the monster’s flank as though chopping into a tree trunk. But it was the sight of nearly a half dozen men in the dark cloaks and hats of the Order of Sigmar that caused him to freeze, to magnify his terror even beyond that evoked by the vampire. The private dread that lurked in the back of every wizard’s mind had at last taken shape, the witch hunters had come.

  Paralysed by fright, Furchtegott spilled to the floor as the gargantuan bat swooped upon him. Sibbechai’s shape twisted and shuddered back into its corpse-like state, cruel talons closing upon the wizard’s neck, forcing his head back, striving to expose the book crushed against the man’s chest.

  The vampire snarled in rage as cold steel raked its face. Burning eyes glared at the ashen-faced woman who had slashed at Sibbechai with her sword. The necrarch hissed at Silja. She returned the monster’s glare with a defiant glower.

  ‘Mathias,’ she shouted, slashing at the vampire again. ‘Sibbechai is here.’ The woman’s sword cut into its dead flesh once more, but no blood swelled from the wound. With a savage growl, the necrarch slammed Furchtegott’s head into the stone floor and leapt toward Silja.

  Sibbechai’s leap was caught in mid-pounce, a heavy sword smashing into its body, severing its spine and flinging it across the hall like a sack of straw. It crumpled against the far wall of the room, limbs twisted about its broken carcass like the crooked legs of a spider. Captain-Justicar Ehrhardt strode toward the vampire’s body. Thulmann’s gloved hand restrained him.

  Both men had heard Silja’s cry. Ehrhardt had detached himself from the combat with von Gotz in time to rescue the woman from the vampire’s attack. Thulmann gave thanks to Sigmar that Ehrhardt had been able to intervene, but now it was his duty to ensure Sibbechai’s destruction.

  ‘Help them against the daemon,’ Thulmann ordered. Ehrhardt saw the determination in the witch hunter’s eyes and did not argue. The Black Guardsman had a debt to settle with Sibbechai, but Thulmann staked an even greater claim. He pulled the vial of holy water hidden within his tunic and, oblivious to the melee swirling around him, stalked toward the vampire’s body.

  Silja moved to follow him, but, as she did so, her eyes fell upon the soiled and befouled cloak hanging from the daemon’s neck, the gold clasp sparkling from between the folds of flesh. She felt a red rage blaze within her as she noted a ghastly familiarity in the creature’s distorted features, a twisted echo of the face of Baron von Gotz, the man who murdered her father. All thoughts of Thulmann and the vampire vanished as Silja charged into the fray, slashing at the corrupt monstrosity with all the ferocity of an Arabyan dervish. One thought now filled her mind, one purpose moved her hand. Silja Markoff would be the one to still the diseased heart of the baron and send his soul shrieking into eternal night.

  The witch hunter closed upon Sibbechai’s carcass, watching for any sign of movement. The swords of Morr’s Black Guard were enchanted by the dark priesthood, enchanted to strike sure and certain against the undead. But Thulmann had seen for himself that vampires were hideously difficult to destroy, and would rise again so long as their profane spark endured. He would only be satisfied when the necrarch’s body was ashes and its dust scattered into the fast-flowing waters of the Stir.

  ‘Mathias.’ Thulmann turned away from the vampire’s corpse at the sound of his name. He turned to see Streng and a number of soldiers struggling against a ragged pack of shuffling, shambling figures. Zombies. Slaves of the vampire. Nor were all of them human, but a number of skaven were included among their ranks. Streng struck the head from the shoulders of one of the ratman zombies with a huge axe. Even as the zombie tottered, its clawed hand lashed out, ripping the warrior’s sleeve. The furred paw was cut away by the clean, deft stroke of a broadsword. Thulmann was startled to find Meisser’s hand gripping the blade. Clearly Streng had not been the only one to liberate a weapon from the suits of armour ranged about the hall.

  Meisser stabbed once more, ripping open the rotting chest of another zombie, spilling its festering blood across the floor. He attacked an undead creature that was menacing a flush-faced aristocrat with powdered wig dangling from his frilled collar. Enough of Wurtbad’s great and good had lingered behind to confront the von Gotz daemon. They would witness Meisser’s bravery and remember it in the years to come. The lust for power had won over the weasel’s sense of self-preservation.

  Suddenly, a grim, bloody figure tore its way into the hall, flinging soldiers and zombies aside with equal disregard. Thulmann felt his soul sicken as he saw the sanguine apparition, its once handsome features now contorted into the visage of a monster. Gregor Klausner glared back at him, his eyes already beginning to lose the last flicker of humanity within them.

  ‘Get away from him, Thulmann,’ Gregor growled, brandishing the jagged wooden spear he carried. ‘Sibbechai is mine!’

  Thulmann stood silent, sword in one hand, holy water in the other. What could he say to this creature, this thing that had once been a man? This abomination that he had permitted to exist? He had known such a thing might happen, had shuddered at its possibility on the long road back from Wurtbad. He should have killed Gregor while he had still been a man, while his soul remained untainted. Now it was too late. Thulmann begged Sigmar’s forgiveness for the selfish timidity that allowed such a fate to befall Gregor Klausner. The witch hunter knew there could be but one way to atone for his failure.

  Gregor watched Thulmann prepare to meet him. Watched the witch hunter lift his blade. He did not want to fight this man, but he could not allow Thulmann to stand between him and the creature that had polluted his very existence.

  ‘Your fight is not with me, witch hunter,’ Gregor said. ‘Let me pass.’

  ‘I cannot suffer you to live,’ Thulmann replied. ‘I should never have allowed this to happen.’ The guilt tore at him. Gregor cocked his head, listening intently to something. A wicked smile spread across his face.

  ‘You have more pressing concerns than myself,’ he stated. Thulmann believed the vampire’s words merely a trick to lower his guard. Then he heard it, a low murmur beneath the sounds of battle. The scratching of claws on stone, the chittering voices of inhuman throats. Its source grew nearer. Cold dread filled the witch hunter as a horde of furry bodies and gleaming fangs burst into the great hall.

  The skaven had come.

  The horde of vermin spilled into the great hall, a living flood of inhuman evil. Rusty, crooked swords slashed out, hacking into living and undead flesh with equal disregard. Caught between the soldiers and the skaven, Sibbechai’s zombies had their rotting bodies crushed beneath the tide of frenzied ratmen, cut to ribbons until no sign of unnatural life remained. Their living foes proved more difficult, mustering a hasty defence to meet the assault. Halberds impaled squealing skaven bodies as the creatures threw themselves at their human enemy, sizzling black blood mixing with the filth streaming across the floor.

  Streng hacked into one ratman’s collar, splitting the creature almost to its belly, losing his axe as the corpse toppled away and ripped the weapon from his hands. The mercenary cursed as more of the vermin surged forward to take the place of their slain comrade. He snarled defiance at the hideous creatures, throwing himself at them, letting his larger mass crush the small ratmen to the ground. Streng’s fingers closed around a furry throat. The ratman clawed at him, frantically trying to push his weight from its body. Before life could completely fade from the creature, Streng’s world was hurled into darkness as the blade of another ratman struck his head, pitching him across the floor.

  Grey Seer Skilk scurried behind the horde of clanrats, the warriors he brought to destroy the undead forces he believe
d were created by his enemies and rivals. Madness was engulfing the great hall of Castle von Gotz. Man struggled against skaven, even as capering, imp-like daemons slashed and gnawed at their legs. At the foot of the stairs, a number of human warriors struggled to combat a greater, even more obscene form. Some of the ratmen drew too near this hulking monster. Skilk saw a pair of them disembowelled by a single sweep of the daemon’s claw. He cringed as he sensed the hideous energies emanating from the monster, an aura of such vileness that he had felt only in the presence of the diseased plague priests of Clan Pestilens. Skilk watched as a huge black knight chopped into the monster with his sword, only to have the wound close upon itself as he withdrew his steel. Only the burning blade of a wild-haired human magician seemed to inflict any lasting hurt upon the behemoth.

  Skilk snapped commands to his bodyguards. The sooner he destroyed the creatures he pursued, the sooner he could scurry back into the safety of the tunnels. A half-dozen black-furred warriors snarled back, spears gripped in their paws. One pair of skaven scuttled forward from behind the protection of the larger black ratmen. Both of the ratmen wore heavy leather cloaks, the garments glistening with moisture. One of them had a large wooden cask lashed to his back, the other carried a massive, wide-mouthed instrument of iron and copper like an oversized blunderbuss. Heavy tubes of insulated ratskin connected the barrel carried by one to the weapon wielded by the other. Skilk gleamed with feral glee as they scurried forward. There was no quicker way to clear a path to one’s prey than the employment of a warpfire-thrower, one of the most ghastly products of skaven technosorcery.