“Observe the lack of blood, either upon the body or the ground,” the witch hunter said. He gestured with the stick, indicating a heavily stained streak that spread away from the body. “Except here, here alone does blood stain the ground. Note its direction. If we were to imagine it as an arrow, it should point to the south and the east. There is importance in that fact, for it is our first sign that this was a deliberate and carefully orchestrated atrocity.”
The witch hunter gestured with the stick again, this time indicating a large wound in the side of the body’s neck. “A deep, swift stab into the artery, allowing the blood to spray outward from the body. The wound is triangular, which tells us something more, for few are those who employ triple-edged blades.”
“Then you are saying a man did this?” Gregor Klausner could barely restrain the shock and outrage in his voice. Thulmann nodded grimly to the young noble.
“Oh yes, a man who wishes with all his foul, polluted soul, to become something more, no matter how abominable the price.” The witch hunter stabbed his stick again at the body. “Observe, the mutilation of the face and skull, a feeble attempt to hide what was actually done to this man. Note the massive injuries done to the chest, the ribs peeled back to expose the inner organs.” Thulmann pointed at the messy remains of the corpse’s left breast. “Yet, what is this? Something missing, and a tidbit far too heavy to have been claimed by even the most gluttonous crow, and cut away much too cleanly to be the work of a fox or weasel.” The witch hunter discarded his stick, backing away from the body.
“There can be no doubt,” he informed Gregor. “This is the work of a necromancer. The savage blood-letting, arranged that the precious humour might point toward the south-east, a blood offering to the profane Father of Undeath. The wound itself, delivered by a triple-edged blade, the tool of the foul elves of Naggaroth, from whom legend says the Black One learned his dark arts. Had the head not been so badly mutilated, we would no doubt find that the brain of this unfortunate had been removed, ripped from his skull by barbed hooks inserted up each nostril. The heart, too, taken, ripped from his still warm body that his vile murderer might work his loathsome sorcery.”
The young noble turned away, spilling his breakfast against the side of a tree.
Streng laughed at the sight, subduing his amusement only when he noticed the sharp look Thulmann directed at him. Gregor rose from his sickness, wiping the last of the vomit from his lips. He smiled in embarrassment, then, reasoning that his belly was already empty, stared directly at the human wreckage that had provoked him.
Gregor Klausner shook his head, trying to absorb the villainy the witch hunter had just described. It was almost impossible for him to believe that a man could lower himself to such acts of degeneracy and wickedness. Yet, there was no doubting the conviction and certainty in the witch hunter’s words.
“Why?” was all Gregor could say. “Why would any man commit such an outrage? What could he hope to accomplish by working such an atrocity?”
Thulmann’s expression became troubled. “If I knew that, I should be a great deal…”
“Riders,” interrupted Streng, drawing his sword. The witch hunter turned, his hand loosely resting upon the wooden stock of his pistol.
Horsemen thundered down the hollow, brush and fallen branches cracking beneath the hooves of their steeds. There were a dozen of them, hard men wearing heavy coats over their suits of sturdy leather armour. They favoured Thulmann’s party with looks that bespoke obvious annoyance, seemingly more interested in the witch hunter’s party than they were in the mangled thing that lay sprawled upon the ground near them.
Thulmann was somewhat surprised, however, when one of the horsemen forced his way to the fore of the group. He was wrapped up in the mass of an immense bear-skin cloak, the fur of its collar rising so high as to cover his cheeks. A rounded hat of ermine was crunched down about his ears. Even so, what little flesh of his face was left exposed was pale and tinged with blue and there was a trembling shiver to his lean frame.
“You should have waited for me and my men,” the lisping voice of Wilhelm Klausner hissed from his shivering lips. “As lord of this district, propriety would dictate that you allow me to conduct you about my lands.” Wilhelm Klausner cast a disapproving eye on his son Gregor, who averted his eyes in a shame-faced fashion. “But then, there are quite a few people, I find, who are not bound by the laws of propriety.”
“With all respect, your lordship,” Thulmann bowed slightly to the old patriarch. “I felt that it was important I see the body at once, before it was disturbed.”
Wilhelm chose to ignore the suggestion in the witch hunter’s tone. “I can hardly imagine that such a sorry spectacle might have anything important to tell,” the old man stated. “If you have seen the work of a wolf once, that is enough.”
“But it isn’t a wolf,” protested Gregor, fire in his voice. “There is something else at work here, something evil.” Gregor noted his father’s unchanging expression. The young Klausner stepped forward, gesturing at the maimed corpse of Skimmel. “This was not the work of a wolf, or any other beast!” Gregor declared. “Just listen to this man, father, he will tell you! He will show you how wrong you are!”
Wilhelm Klausner looked away from his son, casting a sceptical glance to where Mathias Thulmann stood, his gloved hand still resting upon the grip of one of the pistols holstered on his belt. “I am certain that the witch hunter has been quite convincing in his observations.” The old man smiled thinly, the faint whisper of a laugh hissing from his throat.
“But you forget that I too was once a witch finder. I know only too well how that grim calling preys upon the mind and soul, twisting them until one sees evil everywhere and a monster lurking within every shadow. Were I to give free rein to such morbid fancy, I myself could gaze upon those savaged bones and spin speculations just as wild and horrifying as those this good fellow has no doubt been relating.”
Wilhelm Klausner clenched a bony fist, shaking it at his son. “But such sick imaginings would not be true. You should be wary in what you listen to, and what you choose to believe.”
The witch hunter studied the old patriarch. There was something new about him, something lurking just beneath the surface, something that might drive a man to any act of desperation or folly.
There was fear in Wilhelm this morning, carefully hidden, yet no less prodigious than that which might fill a witch’s eye as she lay upon the rack. It was something more than the fear and suspicion his own presence might account, nor had it been evoked by the bloody corpse strewn about the ground.
No, there was something else that occasioned the old man’s terror, something that had not manifested itself until he had laid eyes upon his son Gregor. A quick glance told Thulmann that whatever fear was bubbling up within Wilhelm Klausner was absent from the countenances of his companions, even the glowering Anton and the obviously discomfited Ivar Kohl.
Mathias Thulmann stepped toward the mounted men, noting at once that several of the old patriarch’s troop let their hands slide toward the hilts of their swords. The Templar chose to ignore the menacing motions, instead focusing his attention firmly upon Wilhelm Klausner. “With all respect, your lordship, it seems you have forgotten the lessons you should have learned in your prior calling. The world is far less pleasant than we might have it. There are times when evil is everywhere, there are times when monsters do lurk in the shadows.”
“Not here,” swore the old man. “Not in Klausberg. You are allowed to operate within my lands only by my indulgence. Do not give me cause to revoke it.”
“I will linger in this district until this unholy butcher is brought to ground,” Thulmann’s silky voice intoned. “Your sovereignty extends to secular matters, but I am an agent of the Temple and beyond your will to command. It is by my indulgence that I have so far chosen to respect your authority and try to operate within your auspices. In future, I shall reconsider such courtesies.”
Wilhelm Klausner’s lips twisted i
nto a snarl, swiftly punctuated by a snort of disdain. “Chase your phantoms from here to hell for all I care!” The patriarch glared again at his eldest son. “Come along, Gregor, leave this man to his shadow-hunting.” The old man extended his hand toward his son, indicating that he should join the company of riders. The angry expression melted from Wilhelm’s face, replaced by a look of shock when Gregor remained unmoving.
“I cannot, father,” the young noble said, his voice a mixture of defiance and regret. “I think that Herr Thulmann is correct in this matter. Look for yourself, father! These horrible acts are not the work of a simple wolf. There is something evil, unclean about these deaths! Why can’t you understand that? Perhaps it really is the curse the villagers speak of.” Wilhelm Klausner doubled over in his saddle, overtaken by a fit of violent coughing. Two riders moved in to support the old man and prevent him from falling from his steed. After a moment, Wilhelm straightened his body, waving aside the supporting arms of his steward Ivar Kohl and his younger son Anton. The patriarch locked eyes with Gregor. “I would not have believed you to give credit to such contemptible legends,” Wilhelm sneered. Another fit of coughing wracked the old man’s body. He looked over at his steward.
“The keep, Ivar,” the old man said weakly. “Leave these fools to their foolishness.” As the steward helped Wilhelm turn his horse, the old man gripped the arm of his younger son.
“I leave the hunt in your hands, Anton,” he said in a rasping whisper. “Do not fail me.”
“I shall not,” declared Anton, his words sharp and strong. He watched as Ivar led his father’s horse away, then turned his gaze back upon Mathias Thulmann and Gregor. There was an air of triumph and superiority about the younger Klausner now, his cruel face scarred by a victorious leer.
“You heard my father,” Anton said. “I am now master of this hunt. If you will remain, then you shall do as I say. Otherwise you shall pursue your foolishness elsewhere and leave this matter to men of true quality.”
Mathias Thulmann tipped his hat to the gloating huntmaster. “I think there will not be much to discover once you and your mob have finished trampling every inch of ground in the hollow, and to follow your lead would be more foolishness than I care to contemplate at present.” The witch hunter turned, motioning for Streng and Gregor to return to their horses. Anton Klausner watched the trio depart, his face darkening with rage at the Templar’s disparaging remarks.
“Witch hunter, I’ve not dismissed you!” Anton Klausner spat. Thulmann froze in his ascent up the slope.
“There are very few men who speak to me in such a tone,” the witch hunter told him, not deigning to turn around. “You are not one of them.” Thulmann continued his climb. “I suggest that you remember that,” he added darkly.
Anton Klausner fumed as he watched the three men ride off, the colour growing ever more vibrant in his face. “Come along, you scum!” the lordling snapped as he jerked his horse’s head around. “I want that animal’s head on a spear before nightfall. Then we’ll see which of Wilhelm Klausner’s sons is the fool!”
CHAPTER SIX
Mathias Thulmann and his companions sat astride their horses, staring back down at the hollow from the vantage of the overlooking fields. The Templar shook his head and sighed in disgust.
“Superstition, ignorance and fear are the greatest armour the Dark Gods ever crafted for themselves,” he commented. “Against the folly of the human soul, even the might and glory of Sigmar is hard pressed to persevere.”
“I am certain that my father can be shown that he is wrong,” Gregor Klausner told Thulmann, a defensive quality in his voice. Clearly the implication that the three failings he had spoken were to be found in abundance in the Klausner patriarch had offended Gregor. Even from a man like the witch hunter, he was not about to hear ill spoken about his father.
“There are none so blind as those who refuse to open their eyes,” observed Thulmann. He lifted his hand to forestall the angry protest that rose to Gregor’s lips. “It would aid me immeasurably if your father could be brought to accept the true nature of the horror that has visited itself upon this community, but I fear that no amount of evidence will sway him. He refuses to accept this thing not because he disbelieves, but because he knows it to be true.”
“That cannot be!” snapped Gregor. “My father is a virtuous and courageous man! He served the temple for ten years as a witch finder! He is no coward!”
“I did not say that he was,” Thulmann’s voice drifted into the low and silky tones that so often caused condemned heretics to confide in their seemingly sympathetic accuser. “Not in the sense you mean. But courage and virtue have their limits, and I think that Wilhelm Klausner long ago met and surpassed his own. When he put aside the mantle of a witch hunter, I think he also imagined that he had put aside the duties demanded of one who takes up that calling. Now, perhaps, he cannot bring himself to call upon the man he once was, cannot bring himself to do what needs to be done.”
Gregor grew quiet as the witch hunter spoke, considering the Templar’s words, much of his anger dripping out of him as doubt flooded in to take its place.
Thulmann noted the exchange of emotions, considering how close his suppositions about the elder Klausner might have come to hitting the mark.
“Shall we scout around the edges of the hollow, Mathias?” Streng inquired, jabbing a meaty thumb back toward the trees. “Maybe pick up the heretic’s trail?”
“No, I don’t think that will serve any good,” the witch hunter replied. “We seek a man, not the animal of Wilhelm Klausner’s fancy. And even a madman knows the value of a decent path. No, if there was a trail to be found, the hooves of Anton Klausner and his thugs will have destroyed it.”
“Then how do we proceed?” Gregor Klausner asked.
Mathias Thulmann was quiet for some time, considering what little he had learned since coming to Klausberg. A decision reached, he stared once more at Gregor. “I think we might uncover much if we were to perhaps delve a bit deeper into this curse the villagers speak of. There might be something to learn, something that might put a name to this fiend we hunt.”
Gregor Klausner nodded his head. “There are extensive records of my family’s history kept in the keep. If there is any truth to the curse, then it will be in those records, if it is to be found anywhere.” The nobleman grew silent, a distant look entering his eyes, and he turned a suddenly grim face back upon the witch hunter. “But first, I think there is something you should see,” he said.
The foreboding woods that bordered upon Klausner Keep had been frightful, shadowy apparitions when Thulmann had first seen them upon his twilight ride to the fortress. In broad daylight, they were no less unsavoury and disquieting. The trees were twisted, gnarled things, as though the trunks were writhing in silent torment. The bark was discoloured in leprous splotches, the leaves more often coloured a sickly yellow than a healthy green.
Streng reached out his hand to inspect one of the branches that overhung their path, only to have the wood crumble away into a reeking dust as he touched it.
“They call it ‘the blight’, and have done so for as long as any can remember,” explained Gregor as Streng tried to wipe the filth from his hand, only to have the piece of bark he was employing for the task crumble away in a similar fashion.
“Are many trees so afflicted?” Thulmann asked.
“No, only those near the keep. My father believes that it is some deficiency in the soil,” Gregor stated.
“Strange that there should be such a patch of unwholesome ground at the very centre of all these productive fields and orchards,” observed Thulmann. He suddenly brought his horse to a halt, nearly causing the trailing Streng to crash his own steed into Thulmann’s animal.
The witch hunter dismounted and strode into the bushes beside the path, the bracken crumbling softly beneath his booted feet. He extended his hand, brushing a twisted clutch of brambles away from an object partly buried in the diseased loam. It was a sectio
n of slender stonework, possibly once part of a column or pillar. The witch hunter studied it intently for some time, his hand slowly running along the fine curves and sharp angles.
“Elves lived here once,” Thulmann stated.
“There are quite a few such ruins still scattered about these woods,” Gregor told him. “Though many of them have long since been broken up and used by the villagers and farmers to construct their homes.”
The witch hunter rose from the broken column, striding back toward the path, a new sense of unease about his bearing. The elves were a strange and fey race, mysterious in their ways and deeds. They were a magical people as well, tapping the unnatural winds of magic with a skill unknown to mere men, a proficiency which men of Thulmann’s calling often took as certain evidence of the corruption inherent in the elder race. They were a people not to be trusted, as the ancient dwarfs had learned at great cost, and their ruins were haunted places, echoing with the lingering traces of the enchantments worked by their long dead builders.
Thulmann wondered if there might not be some manner of connection between the existence of these ruins and the affliction that Gregor had named “the blight”. Indeed, the witch hunter could only conjecture whether “the blight” might not itself be a symptom of the greater affliction now plaguing the district.
“So old Helmuth Klausner built his fortress upon the bones of the elves,” Thulmann said, his gaze straying in the direction of the keep, which loomed unseen somewhere beyond the overhanging trees. “I wonder if he truly appreciated what he was doing.”
“Drink this,” the woman spoke in a stern voice, lifting the bowl of steaming broth to the old man’s mouth. Wilhelm Klausner screwed his jaw tight and turned his head in protest.
“I’ll have none of that,” the woman scolded him. She was younger than the old man who lay muffled within the mass of blankets and furs piled atop his bed, her long red hair just showing the first hint of silver. She was pretty, a woman who might once have claimed beauty before the hand of time had begun to caress her plump, robust frame. Her cheerful visage and ruddy, healthy glow of her skin were the utter antithesis of the withered, gaunt apparition who grumbled at her from his cavern of bedding.
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