“I have been attacked twice this night by things that by all rights should have been quiet in their graves,” stated the witch hunter. The massacre at the Brustholz farm was a trap, a cunning trap laid for me by the insidious fiend who has conceived these atrocities. No sooner had your son and myself arrived than the slaughtered family took to their feet in a ghastly parody of life, motivated by the murderous will of their killer. We were attacked again on the road here, hunted by wolves, your lordship. Wolves that feel no pain and have bale-fires instead of eyes’
Wilhelm Klausner began to tremble, a confused look coming upon his face. “Can this be?” he gasped.
“Yes, it is, father,” Gregor told him. “I was there, I saw these horrors for myself.”
“We were saved from the devil dogs by a most unusual phenomenon,” Thulmann said, his silky voice carrying a hint of challenge. “The wolves were unable to pursue us across the stream that borders your estate. Indeed, the one that did so dropped dead instantly, crumbling into dust as we watched it. Most unusual, wouldn’t you say?”
Ivar Kohl blanched at the implication in the witch hunter’s voice. It was with a visible effort that he regained some measure of calm. “Any peasant can tell you that the unquiet dead are unable to cross running water,” he stated. As the steward spoke Gregor stared at his father and shuddered, his hand seeking out the ring he had secreted in his pocket.
Thulmann swung his unremitting gaze on the steward. “Something destroyed the monster,” he stated. “Something more tangible than peasant superstitions.”
“There are a great many elf ruins on my lands,” Wilhelm said. The witch hunter turned back toward him, impressed by the even, level quality to the man’s words. “Perhaps it was some lingering enchantment of the elder race that preserved you and destroyed the wolf?”
“Perhaps,” Thulmann conceded, though the dubious quality in his voice said that he was far from convinced. “Or perhaps there is another reason.” The witch hunter stalked toward the door. “I will finish my consultation of your family records, then you will provide me with an escort back to the village. I don’t have the time to continue placating your pride, Lord Klausner. Cooperate with my needs and we will rid your lands of this menace.”
The witch hunter looked over at Ivar Kohl and smiled thinly. “Wherever it might hide itself,” he added.
* * * * *
Gregor Klausner remained behind in his father’s room after the witch hunter had withdrawn. Ivar Kohl was not long in making his own excuses, hurrying away like some mammoth spider slinking back into a dark corner. Gregor walked over to his mother, asking her to leave him alone with the patriarch.
The woman nodded her head, kissing her son and withdrawing to her own room, telling Wilhelm to call out if he needed anything.
Gregor smiled at his mother’s statement. Even with an entire household at her beck and call, she preferred to see to her husband herself.
“Gregor,” Wilhelm said, clutching his son’s arm. “Dear Gregor, can you really appreciate the horror of what you involve yourself in?”
“I have seen it for myself, father,” Gregor said, his tone defensive. “And I have fought it with courage.”
“Courage?” Wilhelm chuckled scornfully. “Do you think you know the meaning of that word? I pray you never have cause to discover what real terror is!” He stabbed a warning finger at his son’s chest. “But if you continue on the path you walk now, you will! I tell you again, Gregor, have nothing more to do with that man!”
Gregor did not hear his father’s words, however, for he had been frozen to the spot when the old man’s claw had reached toward him. There, upon his thin, spindly finger, was a gold ring, the device of a rampant griffon and a slavering wolf impressed upon its device. Gregor clenched the hand in his pocket, feeling the object there dig at his palm. It was impossible, the young noble thought. The ring in his pocket was the same as the ring on his father’s hand.
“You can’t begin to understand what is going on here,” Wilhelm continued. “I pray that you never need to.” He pulled his son downward so that he could stare up into Gregor’s eyes. The old man’s face was moist when he spoke. “Leave the witch hunter to his business, Gregor. Stay out of it.”
“I can’t,” Gregor told him, pulling away. “These atrocities must end. Our people cannot go on suffering, not knowing which night death will come to them.”
Wilhelm sagged back into his bed, defeated.
“If that is your decision,” he said, his voice empty and hollow. He looked over at his son, and this time there was no mistaking the trickle of tears. “Whatever happens, know that I love you. Know that everything I have ever done has been to protect this family.”
“I know that,” Gregor assured him. He walked away from his father’s bed, back out into the corridor. He needed time to think, to consider the enigma that preyed upon his mind. He was not sure whether to feel relieved or alarmed by the discovery that his father’s ring was still upon his hand. And that conflict of emotion worried him even more.
Wilhelm watched his son depart and shook his head.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
The black-robed figure smiled down at the bound form stretched out beneath his feet. The captive tried to scream, but the heavy linen gag stuffed into his mouth muffled the sound.
“I’m afraid that it is too late for that to do any good,” the robed man said, a regretful tone in his voice. He gazed upward, studying the sky. The great bloated mass of Mannsleib filled the night, but it was not with the greater moon that the stargazer was concerned. He was awaiting the emergence of Mannslieb’s smaller brother, the dim, darkling moon Morrslieb, sometimes called the “moon of sorcery”. There was a truth to such fables, for the influence of Morrsleib was beneficial to enchantments and wizardry.
A cold wind caused the clawing tree branches above them to sway, the crawl of dead leaves upon the ground melding with the creak of the wooden limbs. The stargazer looked back down at the bound man.
“Not so very long now,” he told him, removing the gleaming blade from its sheath on his belt.
The lonely howl of a dog echoed through the blackness, like the mournful wail of a lost soul. The analogy was not at all improper, the man with the blade thought. This was the hour of lost souls, when the restless dead were at their most powerful. The blasphemous writings of Kadon, the high priest of thrice-accursed Morgheim, claimed that it was at this hour, when the watches of the night were at their longest, that the Supreme Necromancer had raised the first corpse from its grave.
There was a great, unholy power at such times, a power made all the more potent still by the emergence of Morrsleib from behind its brother.
The sorcerer looked again at his chosen sacrifice, savouring for a moment the fear he saw crawling through the man’s eyes. Oh yes, he could feel the power, feel its dread influence clawing at his spine. He knows what is going to happen, the part he is to play. A magical ritual was not so very unlike a theatrical production, the sorcerer considered. The success of the performance depended on much the same things: the quality of the props, the location of the theatre. And of course the selection of the actors. Was the wizard truly skilled enough to do justice to the performance demanded of him? Was the fair-skinned sacrifice really so fair, his blood really so rich and vibrant as it seemed?
We shall soon find out, the sorcerer thought, as he watched Morrsleib appear overhead.
The knife stabbed quickly, sinking deep into the sacrifice’s neck. A spasm of thrashing and trembling gripped the man’s body as life spilled from his frame. The robed figure above him wiped the crimson from his blade, sliding it back into its sheath. It had played its part. Now it was time to close the circle, complete the ritual.
“By the three thousand torments of Nagashizzar do I defile,” the crisp, clipped tones of the sorcerer sounded. The gruesome object clutched in his hand began to crawl with maggots. The man’s lip curled in pleasure as he saw the loathsome worms, then
dropped the organ to the ground where they could continue their cannibalistic work.
“By the four names of power do I desecrate,” the man hissed again, this time holding the bisected eyes of his victim. The organs began to decay, dripping into a watery filth that sizzled upon the ground and yellowed the grass.
“By the might of He Who Was, He Who Is, He Who Shall Be Again, do I destroy!” The sorcerer cast the stringy material he had removed from the sacrifice’s skull into the brass brazier resting before him. The smoke that arose from his offering seemed to swell with the ghastly impression of a death’s head.
The man in black robes hurled the organs from him, wiping his hands in disgust on a heavy strip of leather. The wet, gleaming things collapsed upon the ground beside the body’s foot. He bent down toward the corpse again and cut a lung from the man’s chest. With the organ clenched in his fist, he called out into the night.
“To Phakth do I give the breath of life,” the man cried out. “That he might speed upon the wings of justice and undo the works of wickedness.” He bent down, extracting the other lung.
“To Ptra do I give the breath of life! That his glory might shine out into the darkness and banish the dominion of night.”
The black-robed figure returned his attention to the corpse, cutting the body once more. He rose with another piece of the corpse.
“To the watcher at the gate, Djaf the jackal…”
Carandini considered the wretched ruin of his victim. He flicked his wet, sticky hair from his face. Invoking the dread powers always excited him. He never felt more alive than when he was working the fell sorcery of death. The necromancer turned toward his associate, who had remained silent throughout the ritual.
“It is done?” he asked.
“It is done,” the necromancer assured him, a proud quality to his voice.
“It had better work this time!” the shadowy figure warned. Carandini fingered the vial secreted in his cassock.
“I have told you before,” he said. “We must wear them out. They can’t keep up with us forever.” Carandini favoured his confederate with a superior smile. “I should think you’d have learned patience after all this time.”
The black-robed man stared down at the ruin of his sacrifice. There was nothing more to be done, the ancient ritual was complete. However, there was another part to it, something that had been added much later. The robed figure fell to his knees, hands closing about each other. He bowed his head, shutting his eyes so that he might not see the blood staining the ground.
“May Lord Sigmar forgive the doubts and fears of the flesh and honour the sacrifice of this noble martyr, who has died that evil may not prevail,” the man said. Slowly he rose to his feet, motioning for his associates to rejoin him. His thoughts turned away from the gruesome act he had committed, the ancient pagan rite he had performed. Instead, he considered the troublesome witch hunter. Things were swiftly coming to a head, their enemy must strike soon. The witch hunter was an unnecessary complication.
One that would have to be removed.
His face set into an expression of grim determination, Ivar Kohl removed his robes and made his way back to the keep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mathias Thulmann scarcely looked up as Reikhertz crept into his room, a plate of steaming sausage and boiled cabbage held before him. The odour was enough for the witch hunter, his brow lifting in surprise.
“I had thought you to be a more devout Sigmarite than that,” he commented, still regarding the map laid out upon the table. His words caused the innkeeper to freeze.
“Your pardon, sir?” he muttered, his voice a nervous squeak.
“You expect a servant of Holy Sigmar to fortify himself on that?” Thulmann asked. “Take it away” he added in disgust. The innkeeper flinched away at first, then began to bristle as he considered the witch hunter’s high-handed tone. Before he fully knew what he was doing, the innkeeper’s mouth was open once more.
“Look here, just what sort of food do you think I can afford to keep feeding you?” he snapped. “I’ve yet to see any sort of coin from you, not that I’ve asked for any” he hastily added when he saw Thulmann look up. “I am just saying that this isn’t the Nine Crowns in Nuln. I can’t afford to keep feeding you better than I do myself.”
Thulmann regarded Reikhertz with an angry gaze, his finger stroking the thin moustache on his upper lip. Eventually, he reached into the pocket of his scarlet vest and withdrew a pair of gold crowns, which he tossed to Reikhertz. The innkeeper caught the coins with his free hand, his face dropping into an expression of stunned marvel.
“I ask no man to sacrifice more than he can afford,” Thulmann told him, a note of apology in his voice. “There are times, however, when I forget that not every man is as privileged as I. You’ve been most helpful, friend Reikhertz, a true servant of Sigmar.” The witch hunter pointed to the coins gripped in the man’s hand. “Take that, go and get us a lamb, the best spices you can round up in this village and see that it is enough to feed both an innkeeper and a Templar.”
Thulmann smiled. “Whatever is left, I am sure you can find a use for.” He looked back to the map, focusing on the marks he had made upon it.
Reikhertz stood in the doorway a moment, considering the sudden change that had come upon the witch hunter. He strode forward. “Please don’t misunderstand,” he told Thulmann. “We really do appreciate how you are helping us. I know, everybody in the village knows, that you are doing your best to…”
“But my best isn’t good enough,” sighed Thulmann, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, I am making progress, but so is this fiend I am hunting. He grows more bold, more desperate every hour. And it is your people who pay the price for every day I fail to—”
“You sound as if you’re giving up,” Reikhertz interrupted. “If that’s the case, then I’ll be giving these coins back to you and ask you to kindly leave my house.” The emotion in the man’s voice brought a smile to the witch hunter’s tired face.
“No, friend Reikhertz,” Thulmann said. “I’ll not rest until this animal is made to pay for his crimes. But it is a frustrating hunt,” he pounded his fist against the map. “I know that the key lies in the murders themselves, each one is a part of some ghastly whole. If I could only find the pattern, I would know what this monster is up to and where he may strike next.”
Reikhertz withdrew toward the door. “You sound like a man who’s lost and can’t see the forest through the trees,” he observed. “Maybe what you need to do is stand back and try to see things a different way.” The innkeeper stepped aside hurriedly as Streng pushed his way past him, a beer stein gripped in his grimy paw. There was a twisted grin on his face.
“Drinking again, and at so early an hour?” commented Thulmann, disapproval dripping from his voice.
“Still drinking, Mathias,” the mercenary shot back. “I have to stop for it to be ‘again’.”
“Well, this might sober your sodden brain,” Thulmann said, rising to his feet. “From now on, we pay for what friend Reikhertz is gracious enough to provide us with.” The witch hunter smiled as his henchman’s expression grew grave. “That includes anything from his cellars.”
“As you say, Mathias,” the thug said in a surly tone. He cast an angry look over at Reikhertz, then turned back to his employer.
“Might interest you to know that our friend has been busy again,” the mercenary reported. “A fellow has just come in—says he’s found another body. Wanted me to report it to the witch hunter.”
“What?” gasped Reikhertz. “Another murder? Who?”
“Farmer named Weiss, apparently,” Streng told him. “Same as that second fellow we found, Mathias. Didn’t take the time to try and hide who it was, just did his business and went his way. Mind you, the fellow downstairs didn’t stay around to note too many of the particulars.”
Thulmann snatched up the map from the table. Reikhertz was leaning against the wall, a pained expression on his face. “Old Wei
ss,” he muttered in solemn reflection. “Used to drown cats by the old mill when he was in his cups, but a good man just the same.”
“Where did this take place?” Thulmann demanded, thrusting the map under Streng’s nose. The mercenary stared at the map for a moment, brow knitted in concentration as he struggled to read the names marked on it.
“A dry stream bed near someplace called Dagger’s Reach,” he said. Reikhertz walked over, taking the map from Thulmann and pointing out the relevant feature, a jagged fang of rock situated amidst a tangle of fields and wood. The witch hunter spun about, removing a heavy brush from a pot of pigment resting on his table. He daubed a bright crimson mark where Reikhertz had indicated.
The witch hunter sat down again, studying the map intently, trying to perceive how this new atrocity might fit into any of the patterns he had been trying to impose upon the murders. After a few moments he pounded the table in frustration.
“There is a pattern,” he swore. “I know there is! I am just too much a fool to see it.” For the umpteenth time, he began to draw lines between the murder sites with a stick of chalk, snarling every time they did not merge into anything resembling even the most esoteric shape.
Reikhertz and Streng watched Thulmann work with bewildered interest.
“My credit good for one more stein?” Streng asked the innkeeper from the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll join you,” the innkeeper told him. Both men turned, only to find that the hallway was blocked. Gregor Klausner, wearing a bicorn hat and a heavy grey cloak trimmed in rabbit fur, stared back at them. Reikhertz only spared a brief glance at the young noblemen, then locked eyes with the plump young woman with her arm about Gregor’s waist.
“Back to your work!” he snapped at his daughter. Miranda withdrew her arm, setting it on her hip.
“Gregor wanted to see the witch hunter on a most urgent matter,” she snapped back. Father and daughter glared at one another for a moment. It was the daughter who looked away first.
[Mathias Thulmann 01] - Witch Hunter Page 16