“Keep it from reaching the door!” a soldier wearing a sergeant’s pectoral cried out, a look of horror on his face. The witch hunter threw down the smouldering cloak in his hands. The sergeant’s voice was a piteous moan. “Captain Meisser had my men cover the floors in straw soaked with pitch!” he declared. Thulmann’s eyes mirrored the horror as he looked to the keep’s ironbound doors, the tiny serpents of flame slithering toward them from the piled kindling. Even as he called out for the men to redirect their efforts, he knew it was too late. The screams from the keep rose in intensity as the fire raced inside. A group of soldiers fought to force the massive doors open, trying to hack through the portal with axes until the heat of the conflagration drove them back. By degree, the men abandoned their efforts, retreating from the fire as it became obvious that their fight was in vain.
Thulmann stalked back toward the bonfire, trying to ignore the chorus of screams shrieking into the night. He looked for Silja Markoff, but could find no trace of her. Meisser’s words had done their work well, penetrating her strength and determination, wounding the woman inside. Silja seemed to have few weaknesses, but her devotion to her father was beyond question. Thulmann hoped she would not do anything rash.
Nearby, Thulmann found Streng, grinning at him from above the crumpled form of Meisser. The witch hunter captain had been relieved of his weapons, presumably after Streng’s fist had knocked the wind from his stomach.
“Keep your animal off of me!” Meisser demanded. The witch hunter glared back, ripping his pistol from its holster. The captain cringed away, eyes wide with horror.
“You should be begging him to keep me away from you,” Thulmann snarled. His thumb pulled back the hammer of his pistol.
“I was only following orders!” pleaded Meisser, pressing his face against the cobblestones so that he might not see the coming shot. Slowly, with an effort of will, Thulmann released the hammer, slamming the pistol back into its holster.
“Gunning you down in the gutter like a dog is not disgraceful enough an end, Captain Meisser,” Thulmann declared, his voice dripping with disgust. He glanced aside at his henchman. “Streng, take this parasite back to the chapter house. Get him out of my sight.”
Streng pulled Meisser back to his feet, shoving him across the plaza. “Count yourself lucky he’s the gaffer,” he hissed in Meisser’s ear. “I’d have no qualms about putting a bullet in that slimy brain of yours.”
Thulmann did not watch his henchman leave, turning instead toward the blazing Otwin Keep. Its flames rose into the night sky like some infernal hellfire. Some soldiers were still harrying the edges of the conflagration, but most of them had withdrawn. The witch hunter looked in the direction of the distant Castle von Gotz, wondering if the baron had a good view of the atrocity.
Crouched upon the tile roof of a three-floor riverside slum like some withered gargoyle, the grotesque shadow twisted, its undead eyes regarding the distant flicker of light as Otwin Keep burned. Sibbechai’s corpse-face remained impassive. Fires were a common enough hazard in the cramped, overpopulated confines of the Empire’s cities, common enough that they held little interest for a vampire after five hundred years of pseudo-life. The fire was too distant to interfere with the necrarch’s plans.
Sibbechai turned its attention back to the looming grey walls of the Schloss von Gotz. So near, the vampire thought, that it could almost reach out and touch them. Though to do so would be unwise. Sibbechai had not endured five centuries to end its existence in a trap set for a pack of long-dead von Carstein butchers. Carandini had been telling the truth about the wards, of that it was certain. The necromancer had been far too pleased at the prospect of ridding himself of his undead partner to lie.
A chill slithered across the vampire’s withered skin. Its gaze settled upon the dark, indistinct shape that had joined it upon the rooftop, nestled within the shadow cast by the building’s chimney.
“You have come so very far,” Sibbechai sneered. “Does your courage fail you now that you are so close to your desire?”
“No, monster. I merely wish to savour the moment.” The shape emerged into the starlight, revealing itself as a man. Gregor Klausner’s pale hand held the sword he had liberated from Skorzeney’s corpse, its naked steel gleaming. The youth’s eyes were no less rigid, drinking in the corpse-like form of the vampire with an almost emotionless regard. Before, this monster had filled his heart with terror, now it failed to even make his palms sweat.
Gregor wondered if it was because he was no longer human enough to know fear.
Sibbechai spread its arms wide, its shroud-like robes billowing about its lean frame. “Strike me then,” it hissed. “If you can.” Gregor needed no further invitation. He rushed at the vampire with a speed that would not shame a prize Arabyan stallion. Yet it-seemed an eternity to Gregor’s mind, as he sprinted across the slick clay tiles, as the gleaming point of his sword drew close to the vampire’s putrid form. And in that eternity, Gregor learned that he was still human enough to know horror. Thrusting his sword at Sibbechai’s heart, he felt his hand tremble, his arm hesitate. The vampire’s leprous claws closed about his wrist, ripping the sword from him as easily as if he were a swaddling babe. Gregor’s eyes filled with anguish as he glared into Sibbechai’s rotten face. The monster’s skull was distinct and vivid in a manner that the faces of the living no longer were.
“Your brother was a thuggish animal,” Sibbechai spat. The vampire’s clawed hand smashed into Gregor’s face, hurling the young noble across the rooftop. He landed on his back, feeling the tiles beneath him shatter as he fell. Gregor scrabbled at the broken shards as his body began to slide down the slope, arresting his fall only with a frantic effort. Looking up, he saw the burning eyes of Sibbechai glaring at him.
Sibbechai reached down, swatting aside Gregor’s arm to grip his tunic. With an impossible strength, the vampire’s withered arm lifted him into the air. Gregor tried to break the monster’s grip, lashing out with his fists and feet. He knew prodigious strength was now his, equal to even the fiercest Kurgan warlord, yet the withered vampire did not so much as flinch under his blows.
“Your father was a doddering old coward,” Sibbechai snarled. Like a bundle of rags, the vampire hurled Gregor a dozen feet, across the expanse of the street and onto the roof of a neighbouring building. He landed hard. His hand groped at his surroundings to arrest his fall, finding purchase on an iron weather vane. Slowly, his every movement sending broken tiles crashing to the street below, Gregor crawled up the slope of the roof onto the narrow ledge that formed its peak. He was not surprised to see a thin shadow waiting for him. Gregor roared at the monster, ripping a tile from the ledge and flinging it. Sibbechai’s claw effortlessly swatted the improvised projectile aside. Shrivelled lips pulled back in a contemptuous grin.
“I will kill you!” Gregor screamed, charging across the rooftop, intent on sending the vampire’s withered form to the street below. Yet his desperate attack never connected with his intended victim. Displaying a still greater dexterity, and an agility that seemed impossible for a creature so frail, Sibbechai dashed ahead of Gregor, catching the youth’s throat in its cadaverous claws.
“And you,” the vampire laughed, like the rustling of dead leaves, “are a fool.” Sibbechai tightened its grip upon his neck, a clutch that would have broken the vertebra of any normal man. “I had thought you could be of use to me. To aid me against the necromancer. But you are nothing.” Once again, Sibbechai tossed Gregor aside like a piece of garbage. This time, no rooftop stopped his fall.
The last son of the Klausners hurtled out over the street, plummeting down like a thunderbolt hurled from the heavens. Gregor’s body slammed into the edge of the stone quay that overlooked the river, cracking the stonework as it pitched over the side. The dark waters of the Stir closed greedily about his lifeless form as it sank, only a few ripples marking his descent.
Sibbechai turned away, already dismissing the violent interlude. The thrall had been a d
isappointment, weak and impetuous. Gregor Klausner tried to fight against the curse, deny it sustenance. It bespoke a tremendous will, something that Sibbechai would once have found impressive. But in denying the curse the nourishment it craved, Klausner made himself weak, little more than a paper dragon. His defeat had therefore been contemptuously easy.
The vampire looked again at the Schloss von Gotz. It would deal with Carandini by some other means, when the time was right. For now, it had more important needs to satisfy.
“You are so very good to me, Furchtegott,” the baron’s words bubbled and gurgled like waters from a slimy pond. The wizard nodded at his patron, a forced smile frozen on his face. “Smile,” Furchtegott thought, “smile so he can’t see the horror.”
“There is still a chance of infection,” Furchtegott advised. “With your body expelling the remnants of the plague, we must be very cautious about allowing lesser afflictions to gain a foothold.” The wizard had no idea of that which he spoke of, but if it persuaded the baron to remain isolated in his room, allowing no one but Furchtegott to see him, then the falsehood would do its work.
The wizard wound bandages around the baron’s body, trying not to picture the abomination they concealed. “Your skin will be very sensitive for some time, excellency,” Furchtegott said. “We must ensure that it is protected.” The baron nodded his bloated head, already becoming bored with his wizard’s explanations. He reached over with a bandaged hand, ripping a chunk of flesh from the platter resting beside him on the bed. The carcass of an entire pig had lain on that platter when Furchtegott received it from the kitchen servant at the baron’s door. Better than half of that now resided in the baron’s swollen belly, and the nobleman showed no signs of being unable to finish the remainder. The smile faded from Furchtegott’s features as he watched the baron cram the meat into his mouth, seemingly oblivious to the sickly pus seeping through his bandages and tainting his meal.
“You should perhaps watch your diet,” the wizard advised. He tried to tell himself that the baron’s face was not undergoing changes, that his mouth did not somehow seem wider than it should, that the bruises over his eyes were just large boils, not some unnatural growth. Baron von Gotz grinned at his physician-mage, displaying the rotten brown stumps inside his face.
“Didn’t you say a good appetite was healthy?” the baron chuckled. Furchtegott tried not to wince as the nobleman’s obscene breath washed over him.
“Yes, quite so,” Furchtegott agreed, nodding submissively. He hurried to finish wrapping the baron’s leg, wishing there was some way he could convince the nobleman to let him cover his face. The wizard had no idea what was happening to his patient. He had followed the rites laid out in Das Buch die Unholden, the spell that would preserve its recipient against the ravages of disease. But something had gone wrong, it had not worked as it was supposed to. True, the baron was certainly no longer in danger of his life, but he was sicker than ever. Furchtegott couldn’t even begin to name the disease rampaging through the baron’s body, much less its legion of symptoms. It was more like an army of sicknesses than a single ailment. How von Gotz could remain so oblivious to his deteriorating condition, the wizard could not understand, but it chilled him to the bone.
He would need to scour the book again, Furchtegott decided. There had to be an answer in there, a clue to what he had done wrong. If he could correct it, he could still salvage the situation. If not, he would need to find some way of disposing of the baron, destroying him before his condition became any worse, before he became something unnatural. There might not be any reward waiting for him if that came to pass, but at least he could avoid the attentions of the witch hunters and charges of sorcery. Furchtegott looked back at his patron as the baron shoved the better part of the pig’s leg into his mouth, his ruined teeth crunching away at its bones.
He had to do something soon, but first he had to make sure that the baron did as the wizard told him and stayed in his room. If anyone were to witness the state of him now, Furchtegott was certain the witch hunters would not be long behind.
Mathias Thulmann stormed into the Wurtbad chapter house. The old servant who moved to take the witch hunter’s hat retreated before that merciless gaze, a judgmental ferocity that would have given the most courageous man pause. Thulmann’s mood was dark, his thoughts murderous. During the long walk from Otwin Keep, he had struggled betwixt the lust for vengeance and his respect for justice. There was a set procedure to follow, chains of command to be adhered to. Certainly no official within the order could be executed without the permission of Altdorf. But would they see things as Thulmann saw them? Could they understand how Meisser had befouled the Temple of Sigmar, if they had not witnessed the atrocity of hundreds of men, women and children burning to death? Creatures like Arch-Lector Esmer and Witch Hunter General South Sforza Zerndorff might even sympathise with Meisser’s attempt to ingratiate himself with the temporal ruler of Wurtbad.
“Mathias.” Streng emerged from one of the corridors that connected with the vestibule, Emil and the veteran witch hunter Tuomas close behind him. The bearded mercenary jabbed a finger over his shoulder. “Some visitors to see you.”
Thulmann sighed with fatigue, rubbing his temples with his fingers. “Anyone we know?” the witch hunter asked. The best scenario would be Silja, or perhaps her father, come to explain the madness Thulmann had tried to stop. The worst would be a delegation from Baron von Gotz intent on arresting him for interfering with the baron’s edict.
“Actually, they came to see Captain Meisser,” Tuomas said.
“I reckoned that might be a bad idea under the circumstances,” Streng elaborated. “Meisser’s mouth kept flapping on the way back here. I had to shut it for him. It’ll be a few days before he’s presentable.”
“How fares the captain?” he inquired. Streng smiled back.
“In his study licking his wounds,” the mercenary said. “Don’t worry, this time I made sure he’s locked in.” His grin widened. “For his own good, of course.”
Thulmann did not share in the jest, his mind on more important problems. “Our other guest?”
“Still in the dungeons, Brother Mathias,” Tuomas answered. “Missing you terribly, judging by the way he’s been carrying on. I don’t think he screamed that much when your man was tickling his ribs with hot irons.”
“Reckon I’ll have to try harder when I get my hands on him again,” Streng mused. He looked over to his employer. “We pick up where we left off with Hanzel?” Thulmann closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head.
“No. We’ll leave him be for a time. If he’s so eager to talk now, he’ll be doubly keen to speak if we let him wait a little longer. I’ll see these visitors of yours first.”
Streng led his employer to a garishly appointed chamber that had once been a training hall for Wurtbad’s witch hunters before Meisser had transformed it into a reception hall for his many guests. The furnishings were sparse, but expensive, claw-footed chairs from the reign of Emperor Boris Goldgather reposing beneath tapestries woven in the time of Talebecland’s Ottilia. Thulmann found the gaudy collection of antiques from disparate cultures as tasteless as it was flamboyant. It added another crime to Meisser’s misdeeds. He wondered what kind of spineless sycophants Meisser had been courting that they were so easily impressed.
The two men now standing in the reception hall were clearly cut from a different cloth. Or perhaps shroud was a more appropriate word. The first was a stoop-shouldered wraith, his elderly frame cloaked in the heavy black robes of Morr’s sombre priesthood, a silver pendent depicting an archway hanging from his wrinkled neck. The shaven-headed cleric’s face was pinched and wizened, his eyes cold and dark. His companion towered behind him, a giant of a man with his body encased in a suit of obsidian plates and a heavy black mantle, a raven embroidered across the chest, his face concealed behind the enigma of his helmet. Thulmann could feel the menace exuding from the warrior, the aura of death that hovered around him. Here was an
engine of death, a killing machine as near to perfection as any Tilean assassin or Norse berserker. The witch hunter nodded his head respectfully toward the unmoving Black Guardsman of Morr.
“Father Kreutzberg,” Tuomas announced, indicating the bald priest, “and Captain-Justicar Ehrhardt of Morr’s holy Black Guard.” The priest blinked as his name was spoken. The hulking shadow that was Ehrhardt did not so much as twitch a muscle.
“I am Mathias Thulmann,” the witch hunter announced as he stepped into the room. “Captain Meisser is indisposed at the moment. I am acting as his surrogate.” A strained smile creased the ancient face of Father Kreutzberg.
“I care not for whatever games you people play among yourselves,” the priest said, taking Thulmann by surprise. Obviously Kreutzberg was more informed about Meisser’s situation than he had expected. “I have come here because there is a matter that mandates a more integrated cooperation between our temples.” The priest’s voice dropped into a subdued whisper. “Your vampire has been found.” The words brought gasps from the Sigmarite templars.
“You’ve discovered the vampire’s lair?” Thulmann asked, hardly daring to believe it.
“No, but the monster was seen. Only a few hours ago, outside the city. It attacked the plague pits.”
“The plague pits?” Thulmann tried to imagine what the vampire had wanted there, what relevance it had to its hunt for Helmuth Klausner’s grimoire. Even for a necrarch, it seemed a strange thing to do.
“Two priests from my order were killed,” Father Kreutzberg elaborated. He gestured toward Ehrhardt. “Also two Black Guardsmen, crushed within their own armour.”
“But what would Sibbechai want at the plague pits?” Thulmann pondered aloud.
“It stole bodies, Brother Mathias,” Kreutzberg said. “The corpses of my priests were taken, as well as an indeterminable number from the pit itself. The acolytes who escaped the massacre say the creature was not alone. It was helped by a heretic blasphemer, a necromancer.”
[Mathias Thulmann 02] - Witch Finder Page 14