Like a weary moth, Carandini crumpled to the floor, hands clutching at his throbbing head. The gaunt shadow that had been framed in the doorway swept across the threshold, the vampire lingering only to give its duplicitous companion a further command.
“Wait outside and keep watch,” Sibbechai hissed. Carandini turned his face to glare at the monster. The vampire bared its fangs in a bestial snarl. “Beware, necromancer. Your usefulness is now diminished. Soon you may be at the end of it.”
Carandini managed to linger long enough to watch the vampire pass through the far door and into the hallway beyond. Then, compelled by the necrarch’s will, he crept back into the street.
The necromancer’s thoughts were black. His hand continually closed about the tiny bottle of holy water sewn into the sleeve of his cassock. It would have been much easier to take the book from Wolfram Kohl, both for himself and for the doomed wizard. Now they would both have to face the vampire. After Sibbechai’s recent display, Carandini was less certain than ever about his chances against the necrarch.
* * * * *
Mathias Thulmann stalked the deserted night streets like a hound that scents the nearness of its prey. Wolfram Kohl. Brother of Ivar Kohl. Student of the amethyst college in Altdorf. Amethyst, that school of wizardry closest of all to the forces of dark magic and necromancy. The witch hunter had thought Wilhelm Klausner an idiot to entrust a potent work like Das Buch die Unholden to a wizard, but he must have been mad to entrust it to one who was practically a necromancer already.
How many years had Kohl been in possession of the forbidden text? How many years had the wizard spent studying its abominable rites and blasphemous incantations? According to Meisser’s records, Kohl had suddenly stopped practising the arcane arts five years ago. Amethyst wizards were in high demand, for their profane spells could call upon the spirits of the dead to communicate with the living. For the bereaved, one last moment with a departed loved one was worth any price. When he turned his back on his art, the wizard ended a very profitable series of séances. Thulmann knew even wizards placed some value on gold — if only to fund their arcane studies. Wolfram Kohl must have had a good reason to quit his trade. Was it to devote himself body and soul to studying Helmuth Klausner’s unholy spellbook?
Thulmann kept one eye on the men following him through the lonely streets. Bearding a wizard in his lair was always a dangerous proposition. Supernatural powers could give the wizard prior warning of a witch hunter’s approach, while an infinite number of spells and wards could be called upon to protect him and bring harm to his enemies. Not a few witch hunters refused to pursue such a course without a wizard of their own, to fight magic with magic. It was particularly common in Altdorf, where the colleges of magic and their students were readily available. Thulmann had always found such tactics unconscionable. Even more so now, for it was alarmingly similar to the heresy that had consumed the Klausner line. He preferred to put trust in his courage, and faith in the grace of Sigmar, not the unclean spells of conjurers.
Even so, he would have felt better with more men. After discovering the existence of Wolfram Kohl, Thulmann had ordered Meisser to round up every available witch hunter. But only five could offer their services, the others strewn about the city conducting investigations on Meisser’s behalf. Two were not unknown to Thulmann, his comrades in arms at the conclusion of the scarecrow murders, who had helped to surround the hovel of Chanta Favna. He could be certain they would stand firm if his worst fears about Kohl proved well founded. There were two apprentices who seemed cut from the same cloth, but then he had seen expensive equipment and exhaustive training shatter before the powers of Old Night too many times. The last was the elderly warrior priest Father Kunz, attached to the witch hunters by the Wurtbad temple of Sigmar.
His sixth conscript from the chapter house was less agreeable. It was only natural that Witch Hunter Captain Meisser should volunteer to assist. Indeed, the wily Meisser had suggested that matters may become politically difficult for the visiting witch hunter, should he refuse. The balding Meisser, with his piggish eyes, was an indifferent swordsman — doubtless even more so with one arm still injured from his encounter with Chanta Favna’s automaton. Still, Thulmann was somewhat relieved by the offer, if only because it seemed Meisser was more concerned for Thulmann’s welfare than he himself.
The reason for Meisser’s concern walked with all the dignity of an emissary from the royal court of Bretonnia, her hobnail boots scratching on the cobbles as she unerringly picked out the cleanest places to set her feet. Silja Markoff had insisted upon accompanying the witch hunters, stating that her role as liaison between the Ministry of Justice and the Order of Sigmar demanded no less. Thulmann was of a mind to refuse, but swiftly relented when he considered the politics involved. He was in no mind to play games with the ministry when his quarry was so close at hand. Besides, Silja Markoff had brought her bodyguards with her. Thulmann recognised that two highly-trained soldiers from the Ministry of Justice may well have their uses.
A sharp curse made Thulmann turn around. A faint smile flickered on his face as he saw Silja wipe something from her boot. It seemed her unerring footwork had at last deserted her. The witch hunter sighed as he watched the woman discard her soiled handkerchief. When they arrived at their ultimate destination, he hoped she at least would have the good sense to stay out of the way.
“You are wise to keep an eye on her,” Meisser whispered from beside him. “She’s trying to weaken the order here in Wurtbad, to subvert our authority on behalf of her father.”
Thulmann arched an eyebrow, staring intently at Meisser’s swinish face. There was no mistaking the innate cunning he saw there. “Indeed,” he mused. “She’s told you as much, has she?”
“Actions speak more loudly than words,” Meisser stated. “She’s been a thorn in my side ever since the quarantine was established. Getting in the way. Hindering the investigation.” His tone became indignant. “As though secular authority has any power over our order.” Meisser’s clammy hand gripped Thulmann’s arm, pulling him closer. The witch hunter looked back to see the suspicious, disapproving look that Silja directed at them.
“You might not know it, Mathias,” Meisser confided, “but you are very highly thought of in certain circles. Our uncovering of the witch and her scarecrow impressed not a few of Wurtbad’s notables.” Thulmann fought to control his disgust as Meisser referred to their tracking down of the witch. It had been Thulmann who discovered the fiend behind that series of ghastly murders. Left to his own devices, Meisser would have continued torturing and executing innocents until the return of Sigmar. “Not a few regard you as some sort of hero.” Again, the cunning gleam entered Meisser’s eyes. “Now, if you were to protest this unprecedented intrusion into our order’s affairs, I am certain some action would be taken.”
“So that’s it,” thought Thulmann. “Get me to fight your battles for you.” He detached Meisser’s hand and stepped away. “Captain Meisser, I’ve not been back in Wurtbad long, but it seems that there are a great many people here who feel the city needs to be protected from the Order of Sigmar.” His withering hiss of contempt silenced any retort. “But who, Captain Meisser, is going to protect the Order of Sigmar from you?”
As Thulmann left the insulted captain to brood on his scorn, he took a backward glance at Silja Markoff. She nodded respectfully at the witch hunter as their eyes met. Thulmann returned the gesture.
He looked out on the city’s horizon to the distant artisans’ quarter. Wolfram Kohl’s house would be found there, and his quest to destroy Das Buch die Unholden would soon reach its conclusion. After so much darkness, so much doubt, the prospects were finally starting to look brighter.
Things were starting to look very bleak, the mercenary decided, as he beat back the blade of his enemy. Streng’s relief that the young tough he’d insulted had equipped himself with a sword rather than a pistol, had quickly evaporated on his discovery that the rogue was more than proficient.
Streng’s left arm bled from where Black Coat’s sword had glanced off his flesh. The cut in his side was deeper. Streng knew that if he didn’t stem the blood seeping through his armour, it would not be long before he had no strength to lift his own blade.
“Where’s your glib tongue now?” Black Coat was sneering, parrying Streng’s retort with an insulting degree of ease. “Isn’t it funny how all the bravado drains out of a man once he starts to soil his breeches?”
Streng growled at his antagonist, his sword managing to slip past his enemy’s guard and scrape along his forearm. Black Coat gasped in pain, flinching and transferring his blade to his uninjured hand. Streng grunted with satisfaction. Black Coat might be skilled, but he was no veteran duellist. He was allowing his over-confidence to make him sloppy, his sword making flashy attacks that left gaps in his defence.
“Don’t like the sight of blood, eh?” jeered Streng, mustering his strength in the brief respite his enemy had allowed. Black Coat’s face contorted into a look of such intense rage that Streng was reminded of a Norse berserker. With a bestial snarl, the youth leapt to the attack once more.
Streng blocked it with his own blade, letting Black Coat’s charge carry him forward, so that the faces of both men were scant inches from each other. Streng hawked phlegm into his mouth and spat the foulness in his adversary’s face. Black Coat recoiled in disgust, momentarily blinded as he wiped the spit from his eyes. He still managed to block Streng’s retaliation, the mercenary’s sword ringing as it crashed against Black Coat’s parrying blade. But the attack was only a feint. With a savage kick, Streng’s heavy boot smashed into Black Coat’s knee, breaking the joint with an ugly popping sound.
Black Coat spilled to the cobbles like a sack of grain, a dry shriek ripping through his lungs. Streng was on him in an instant, his boot attacking the side of the youth’s neck, choking the scream as it snapped. Black Coat’s body writhed in silent pain until Streng’s sword slashed downward into his spine. The mercenary had seen far too many mortally wounded men muster enough strength to finish off their killer. The thug’s cold eyes watched as the spasms that wracked Black Coat’s broken frame gradually subsided. Only when they had stopped did Streng let his sword drop, hands clutching at the gash in his side.
With a moan of pain, he crashed to the street. The mercenary tore a strip from his undershirt, prodding it into the gap that Black Coat’s sword had slashed through his leather armour. The cut wasn’t deep, it had missed any vital organs, but it could prove no less fatal if he did not stem the loss of blood. He’d have to get the harlot to help him, to send her for a chirurgeon. Streng turned his face back to where he had seen Black Coat kicking the woman. He groaned in disgust, but not surprise. The whore had not lingered to see who would emerge victorious from the back alley duel. She was probably already spending Streng’s money in some tavern.
“Well,” Streng spat at the corpse lying beside him. “The way I see it, you owe me a debt.” The thug grunted in pain as he rolled onto his side and crawled over to Black Coat’s body. Bloodied hands pawed through the dead man’s clothing. Streng grinned as he removed a small purse, its contents jingling with coins. He was less certain about the purpose of the leather mask he found hidden under the black coat — a long, hook-nosed object that reeked of lilac. Streng tossed it aside and continued his search, removing a small linen bag from the dead man’s belt. It contained a bottle. The smile that greeted the discovery of the money pouch echoed across the thug’s harsh features. But as he removed the bottle from its wrapping, the smile faded. The dark glass vessel was empty, but it was not this that alarmed Streng. There was an air about it, a taint that Streng had experienced many times since pledging his service to the witch hunter. It was the stench of sorcery, the cold chill of black magic.
Streng hastily replaced the bottle within its wrapping. The witch hunter would want to examine it, to know more about the man who had carried such a talisman. The mercenary pawed once more at the corpse. He recoiled in horror as his probing hand discovered a massive, wormy growth that sprouted from the dead man’s belly. No simple mugger or cutpurse, he was something unclean. The dead man had been a mutant! In a frenzied motion, Streng scraped the blood from his hands with the dead man’s coat.
The mercenary gathered the bottle and the strange leather mask from the cobblestones and painfully lifted himself to his feet. Thulmann might even see fit to give him a bonus for his troubles. The thought cheered his dark mood somewhat. With one hand trailing along the wall of the alley to support him, Streng slowly made his way back to the street. Between the witch hunter’s bonus, and what he had looted from the mutant’s corpse, he’d have a grand time once he was back on his feet again.
Allowing, of course, that he was able to find a healer before he passed into the arms of Morr from loss of blood.
Mathias Thulmann paused outside the door of the wizard’s dwelling. The stench of magic was in the air, the noxious taint of unnatural power. Even the most untutored of men could have sensed it. The unseen aura of sorcery was what made even the lowliest animal loth to approach the domicile of a wizard. Thulmann stared up at the looming facade of the house, watching the flicker of a streetlamp cast eerie shadows upon a plaster gargoyle. His expectations were uncertain, but he looked for some outward sign of the corruption that raked its spectral claws against his nerve endings. It was more than the foulness and decay that characterised the magic of Amethyst wizards. An older, darker energy seemed to crawl from the very walls of the house. Thulmann had wondered if his fears were correct, if Wolfram Kohl had been fool enough to dabble into the forbidden power that had been entrusted to him. Now it seemed he had his answer.
The witch hunter did not have long to ponder his fears, before Meisser’s swaggering frame squirmed his way past him. The captain’s hand gripped the brass knocker that sprouted from the front door and delivered a sharp, imperious report. Meisser called out sharply, “Wolfram Kohl. By the authority of the Temple of Sigmar, you are commanded to open this door.”
An animalistic snarl of frustration hissed from Thulmann as he shoved the meddler aside. Any chance of taking the wizard unawares was now completely lost. “Idiot!” he spat at Meisser, drawing one of his pistols from its holster. Without hesitation, Thulmann fired the weapon into the lock, his boot smashing into the ruined mechanism. The door crashed inward. Thulmann stepped inside, shouting back to the startled men who had been following him.
“Three of you,” he snapped. “Around to the sides and back. Make certain he doesn’t slip away.” Without waiting to see who would execute his commands, Thulmann raced into the shadowy hallway.
The hallway opened upon a large parlour, its wooden floors furnished with heavy rugs, its walls concealed behind shroud-like drapes of black cloth. A small fire slowly smouldered within the fireplace that separated the drapes, a claw-footed couch and a cluster of chairs arranged about the hearth. The witch hunter’s eyes darted across the chamber. He noted the crystal decanter standing upon a small table, and the glass goblet shattered on the floor beside it, a pool of Estalian brandy slowly seeping into the rug. A richly upholstered footstool had been kicked onto its side, and the rugs around it were clearly disordered. Someone had quit his habitat in a most reckless fashion.
Thulmann took another step into the parlour, fingers wrapped about the grip of his pistol. His eyes studied the room, his ears keen for any sound. But only the soft crackle of the fire competed with his breathing. Thulmann’s eyes narrowed as he observed the flicker of the flames. The sound of footsteps intruded upon him. Meisser and Silja appeared at the parlour’s entrance, each with an underling hovering behind them like a shadow. Thulmann lifted his hand, motioning for them to keep silent.
Removing his calfskin glove, he reached toward the draped wall. He could feel the faint touch of cold air caressing his palm, confirming his observation that the fire was reacting to a draught. Thulmann gripped the drape, pulling it toward him, exposing the doorway it concealed. He had known, of
course, that the hidden walls would hide a number of doorways, a simple measure by the wizard to disorient any unwelcome visitors without calling upon sorcery. The wizard also would have known that a draught from an open door would make a secret portal much easier to find. It was either careless or maliciously deliberate. Did the wizard intend for his unwanted guests to follow after him?
“Two of Meisser’s men are watching the sides of the house,” Silja whispered. “One of mine is watching the back.” Thulmann tugged the black drape from its fastening, letting the heavy fabric crumple to the floor. The witch hunter glanced down at his pistol, assuring himself the hammer was still primed, the flashpan secure. He bestowed a grim smile upon Silja.
“I don’t think our sorcerous friend intends to escape,” he told her. The words brought a nervous sweat beading onto Meisser’s forehead.
“What — what does the swine hope to accomplish then?” Meisser asked. It was one thing to stalk a wizard when the roles of hunter and prey were clearly established. For all his political machinations, Meisser was uncomfortable when things became too complicated.
“There is only one way to find out,” Thulmann observed. He placed his hand upon the half-shut portal. The door creaked inward. Finding no sorcerous flame in the darkness, the witch hunter ducked into the opening. He found himself in a narrow hallway, with doors spaced across its length. Ahead of him he saw another chamber, the dim flicker of firelight dancing across its walls. Thulmann’s gloves creaked as his grip on his pistol tightened and his steps grew hurried. In the flickering light he could see bookcases, their shelves bulging with leather-bound tomes. Behind him, he could hear the others follow.
It was Wolfram Kohl’s library, of that he had no doubt. It reached upward for two storeys, every inch of wall space consumed. A wrought iron staircase wound its way upward from the centre of the room to merge with the narrow walkway that provided access to the upper tier. Against one wall, a bronze brazier, its bed of coals covered by a crystal hood, provided intermittent illumination. Thulmann stepped inside, eyes prowling amidst the shadows.
[Mathias Thulmann 02] - Witch Finder Page 7