“It’ll be a long wait for that.” Schuller cast a professional eye over the glowing embers that were still peppered with little tongues of flame. “All that ash will retain the heat. Like banking a hearth fire up at night.” He shrugged. “You’re looking at three days minimum. More likely four or five.”
“It’s all academic now anyway,” Littman shook his head. “We might as well bury Altman and go home.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Father Antrobus?” Rudi asked, shocked at the suggestion. The farmer should be taken back to the garden of Morr at least, and have the priest commend his soul to the realm of Morr. True the reverend was a Sigmarite, but the clerics of the god of death couldn’t be everywhere and a blessing from him was generally considered sufficient until one of the Morrite mendicants who passed through the village every few years could intercede with the lord of the afterlife for those who’d died in the intervening period.
“If he’s got the pestilence we should get him in the ground straight away,” Littman said, shaking his head. “It’s all one to him now anyway.” Schuller nodded in sombre agreement.
“Maybe we should chuck him in there,” he indicated the smouldering ruins of the cottage with a tilt of his head. “There’ll be enough heat trapped under the ash to burn him to cinders if we stir them up a bit.”
“Might be safer at that,” the old soldier conceded. Rudi could barely contain his disgust. The farmer was a human being, for Sigmar’s sake, he deserved better than to be incinerated like some diseased piece of livestock. “We can send the god botherers to say their piece over the ashes.”
Schuller shrugged, trying to match his sergeant’s air of world-weary pragmatism.
“It’s probably all we can do for the others in any case,” he offered. Littman nodded soberly.
“They’re beyond aught else, that’s for sure.” He was on the verge of adding some further comment that would delay the order a little longer, when his glance struck the middle distance. “Who the hell’s that?”
“Sergeant!” One of the militiamen who had been left in the road to secure the narrow gateway called a moment later, waving an arm to attract Littman’s attention. “Someone’s coming!”
Rudi trotted after the sergeant as he hurried to the gate, with surprising speed for a man of his years and with a damaged leg. There was nothing wrong with his eyes, though, the young messenger thought. Even by squinting Rudi could barely make out the distant figure advancing towards them along the highway from the distant town of Dreibruken. The sun shone almost directly into his face, and he wondered for a moment how Littman had been able to pick out the solitary rider in the surrounding glare. His respect for the old soldier rose another notch, and he resolved to listen a bit more attentively the next time he launched into one of his interminable stories.
The small knot of militiamen had reformed long before Rudi was able to make out any more detail, by which time the horseman had drawn close enough to take on a definite silhouette. By now he must surely have noticed the smoke rising from the devastated farmstead, as well as the group of spear-armed men spreading out across the road in front of him, but he neither varied his pace nor showed any inclination to change direction to avoid them. The horse came on at a steady trot, which ate the miles without unduly fatiguing it.
“Is it one of them?” a militiaman asked. It was a youth barely older than Rudi whom he recognised vaguely, but couldn’t put a name to. Littman shook his head.
“Beastmen eat horses, Stug, not ride them.” Stug seemed unconvinced.
“I heard some of them are like horses themselves, with four legs, and…”
“Maybe.” Littman’s tone was dismissive. “But I’ve never seen one. And I doubt he’d be offering rides.” The men laughed, a little nervously, glad to be able to relieve the tension.
“Good afternoon.” The rider had come within conversational distance by now, and he spoke without raising his voice. It was only later, that Rudi realised the power with which he must have projected it in order to have spoken so casually from some threescore paces away. “Have I reached a toll already?”
“No tolls this side of Kohlstadt,” Littman told him, stepping forward.
“I see.” The horseman kept moving to meet them. He had a friendly smile on his face, which wasn’t reflected in his ice-blue eyes. “Then may I ask why you’re obstructing the Emperor’s highway?” His hand hovered casually near the hilt of the sword at his belt, and it was clear to Rudi from the way Littman tensed that the two men understood one another.
He had never seen anyone like this stranger before. His clothes were dark, black or grey, and of good quality. Despite their plainness he was reminded of the garments he’d seen Magnus and Steiner wear. Unlike the dignitaries of Kohlstadt, however, they showed signs of hard wear. The only touch of colour on the man’s costume was the dark blue feather tucked into the brim of his hat. What little Rudi could make out of his features seemed ordinary enough, save for the scar across his right cheek, which seemed to take on a life of its own, becoming more prominent as his jaw tensed.
“Heinrich Littman, sergeant-at-arms of the Kohlstadt militia.” Littman waved at the smouldering cottage, which the stranger couldn’t help but have noticed already. “Here to investigate that.”
“I can assure you I’m not responsible,” the stranger said, reining in his steed. It was jet black, like the night made manifest, its coat glossy with the slight sweat it had worked up on the journey from Dreibruken. Rudi knew nothing of horses, there was precious little use for them in the forest, but it seemed like a different species entirely from the farmers’ nags he was used to seeing in the streets of the village and the fields surrounding it.
“I know.” Littman turned away, as if already dismissing the man from his mind, although his shoulders remained set. “Best get to where you’re going before the sun goes down.”
“I will.” The stranger swung himself down from the saddle. “I see the stories I heard about beastmen in the area were hardly exaggerated.”
“There’s a dead one in the field over there,” Rudi told him, irritated by the stranger’s manner. Littman shot him a warning glance that Rudi hardly noticed. “And a dead family too.”
“A dead beastman?” The chill blue eyes locked with his, and despite himself Rudi shivered. “Show me.” The man’s voice was still conversational in tone, but it carried the unmistakable weight of authority. Rudi felt a flicker of resentment.
“This way.” Littman pointed to the wheat field. “Rudi knows where.” To his intense surprise Rudi thought he could detect an edge of nervousness in the old soldier’s tone. The stranger smiled.
“Rudi, is it? You found the thing?”
“Yes. And Herr Altman’s body too.” There was no point in trying to hide anything the man might get just as easily from any of the militiamen. The man in black looked intrigued for a moment.
“You can show me that afterwards. Why were you here?”
“I had a letter to deliver to Herr Altman.” Rudi felt his antipathy to the stranger grow. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Everything’s my business, if I choose to make it so.” For a moment there was a hard edge to the man’s voice, but it resumed its conversational tone. “Show me the letter.”
“No.” Rudi glared at the stranger. “It’s a private matter.”
“Show the man, lad.” Littman took hold of his arm. “Altman’s dead now anyway. What’s the difference?”
“The difference is I get paid to deliver letters. If I let just anyone read them, who’s going to trust me with their messages anymore?” Rudi snapped, but was astonished at the sergeant’s reaction. Littman’s face became pale with apprehension.
Someone started to laugh, and with an even greater shock of surprise he realised that it was the man in black.
“Well said, youngster. It’s a long time since anyone’s stood up to me over a matter of principle.” He thrust out a hand for Rudi to shake. “Luther Gerha
rd, chaplain militant of the temple of Sigmar.”
“You’re a priest?” Rudi asked, not quite sure he could believe his ears. The only cleric of Sigmar he’d ever met before was Father Antrobus, who was elderly and diligent in caring for his flock, and about as far removed from this self-assured man as he could imagine. Gerhard smiled again, with a hint of amusement in his eyes for the first time.
“In a manner of speaking.” Littman looked even more forlorn now, as if something he’d hoped wasn’t true had just been confirmed. But Rudi felt immediately reassured. If you couldn’t trust a priest, who could you trust? He took the proffered hand and shook it.
Abruptly he found himself swung violently around, with a dagger at his throat, and an excruciating pain running up his right arm.
“There. We’ve been properly introduced.” Gerhard’s voice was as warm and conversational as ever. “Now show me the letter, or I’ll cut your throat and take it from your corpse. Either way, I’ll read it.”
“Show him, lad. He means it.” Littman’s voice was tight with tension. “I’ve met witch hunters before. You don’t mess about with them.”
“Not twice, anyway,” Gerhard said.
“It’s in my pouch!” Rudi cried. He was not sure he believed the threats, but was not willing to find out. Besides, his arm felt as though it were being plunged into boiling water. Abruptly the pain ebbed as Gerhard released his grip, and used the now empty hand to pluck the message from the pouch on Rudi’s belt.
“Hm.” He broke the seal with the point of the dagger, which vanished up his sleeve again. He scanned the letter. “It seems the late Herr Altman had a very generous creditor.”
“Magnus is well known for his kindness,” Rudi said. “He’s told a lot of people who owe him money not to bother paying him back until they can.”
“Has he indeed?” Gerhard nodded, as if filing the information away for later, and let the letter drop to the ground. A stray gust of wind took it up and skittered it towards the smouldering ruins of the cottage, where it dropped, combusted in the heat, and rose like a brief, flaring comet. “Show me the beastman.”
Reluctantly Rudi led him over to the wheat field. The militiamen remained where they were. Only Littman followed, showing every sign of wishing he could stay behind, but not quite daring to let the man in black out of his sight.
“Are you really a witch hunter?” he asked. The reason for the sergeant’s nervousness was now all too clear. Gerhard nodded again.
“That’s what they call me. I prefer to think of myself as ‘a seeker after truth’.” His voice was as conversational as ever, as though the brief burst of violence he’d displayed and the threat to Rudi’s life had been no more than a polite exchange of pleasantries. The young forester felt a chill running up his spine. There wasn’t a citizen of the Empire who hadn’t heard of these ruthless seekers after heresy and mutation, and who wasn’t terrified at the thought of coming to their attention. They were fanatics, people said, who thought nothing of condemning whole villages to the flames on a mere word of suspicion. On the evidence of their short acquaintance so far he could well believe it.
“It’s over here.” Rudi pointed out the hideous corpse as he scrambled over the wall, in almost exactly the same place as he had before. The witch hunter vaulted lightly over the stone barrier, and Rudi began to realise that despite his relaxed demeanour he was as fit and strong as anyone he’d ever met. Littman didn’t follow. He was content this time to lean on the wall and crane over it. No doubt he wanted to keep as much distance between himself and Gerhard as possible.
“Hm.” The witch hunter bent to examine the corpse, pulling on a pair of thin leather gloves as he did so. Rudi couldn’t blame him, he wouldn’t have wanted to touch the thing either. “Now that’s unusual.” He looked up and caught Littman’s eye. “You’re an old campaigner, by the look of you. Have you fought these creatures before?”
“Many times,” the sergeant nodded warily, unsure of the significance of the question.
“Ever seen anything like this before?” Gerhard raised the beastman’s right hand. Rudi peered at it too, uncertain what he was supposed to be looking at. It was ugly enough all right, ending in curved fingers with long, talon-like nails. There was something tattooed in the palm which he couldn’t quite make out, a pattern of curving lines which looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t see why that would be of such interest to the man in black. Then Gerhard pulled back what Rudi had taken for a simple fold of skin, and his stomach lurched. If he hadn’t already been sick he certainly would have been now. The creature had an extra mouth in the palm of its hand, edged with sharp, curving teeth.
“Sigmar preserve us!” Littman blenched, and made the sign of the hammer. Gerhard smiled sardonically.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he said.
“You’d be right.” Littman recovered his composure with a visible effort. “I’ve seen foul enough things in the Drakwald, but never that twisted.”
“I’m not surprised.” Gerhard nodded. “Most beastmen follow the path of Chaos indiscriminately. This one carries the mark of a specific one of the Dark Gods, no doubt it thought itself blessed by the attention of its deity.”
“I don’t care what they believe. They all die if you hit them hard enough.” Littman spat at the thing, landing a gobbet of phlegm in its eye with remarkable accuracy. Gerhard smiled.
“Spoken like a true soldier.” He turned to Rudi. “And what do you think, young man? You found the creature.”
“I think I’m glad Herr Altman finished it off before I got here,” Rudi said, hoping to evade too much close questioning about the circumstances in which he’d made the discovery. He had no doubt that the witch hunter was skilled at detecting lies and half-truths, and the thought of being discovered trying to deceive him made his blood run cold. Better to evade the topic entirely. “I’ve never seen anything so hideous in my life.”
“Count yourself lucky,” Gerhard said. Then he stood up, much to Rudi’s relief. “And speaking of Herr Altman, where is our deceased soil-tiller?”
“In the next field,” Rudi replied, pointing out the direction. “The creatures must have found him over there, where he was digging, and chased him this far before they caught him. But he managed to wound this one first.”
“Wound? I thought it was dead when you found it,” Gerhard said softly. Rudi swallowed nervously.
“It obviously dragged itself to the edge of the field before it died. You can see where the grain stalks are bent.”
“Ah. I see.” The witch hunter glanced around, and nodded to himself. “You’re very observant.”
“My father’s a forester. I’ve been tracking all my life,” Rudi explained.
To his relief Littman intervened to back him up.
“And he’s very skilled at it too. He’s the one who found the first traces of the beastmen in the woods.”
“I see,” Gerhard said again. He smiled at the young woodsman, with every appearance of good humour. “I’ll talk to you about that later. Lucky I didn’t kill you back there.”
Rudi wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so just nodded in reply as though the remark had been a reasonable one.
“Whenever you’ve got the time,” he said, as levelly as he could. For a moment he thought he could see a flash of genuine amusement in the witch hunter’s eyes.
“Good.” Gerhard began walking away from the body, towards the patch of turned earth that Rudi had noticed before. “Now what do you suppose our dead friend was doing out here digging up an almost ripe crop?”
“Trying to stop the blight from spreading.” Rudi indicated the sickly plants surrounding them. “A lot of the farmers around here are doing the same, hoping to preserve at least part of the harvest.”
“I see.” Gerhard stepped out into the cleared patch of ground. “Then don’t you think he’d be clearing a strip across the whole field?”
Rudi nodded. That much was obvious, but the gist of the wit
ch hunter’s remark escaped him for a moment. Then he realised that the patch of cleared ground was completely circular. He paced across the diameter, finding it about nine yards across. Altman had clearly been very industrious. He shrugged.
“Maybe he was planning to burn the blighted stalks,” he suggested. “Clearing space for a bonfire.” It sounded ridiculous to him even as he said it, no one in their right mind would set a fire in the middle of a field they were hoping to preserve, the risk of it spreading was far too great.
Gerhard shook his head.
“It’s nothing so innocent, I’m afraid.” His eyes were on the ground, as though searching for something. “You’re the tracker, apparently. Where’s the soil been most disturbed?” Flattered at being consulted by a man so versed in mysteries beyond his comprehension, Rudi stared at the patch of cleared soil. The mattock had turned over all of the topsoil in the process of clearing it, but some areas had apparently been worked on more recently than others.
“It’s hard to be sure,” he said carefully. “It’s been badly trampled.” He indicated where the marks of shod and cloven feet marked the site of Altman’s last desperate battle. “But the last place he was working seems to be here.” He pointed then frowned with confusion. “The strange thing is he wasn’t digging in one place.”
“How do you mean?” the witch hunter asked, looking at the ground as though the traces Rudi could see clearly enough were completely invisible. Rudi shrugged.
“He seems to have been digging furrows. And don’t ask me why, but they’re going off in all directions.”
“Show me.” Alert interest was on Gerhard’s face now, as though something he’d only suspected so far was beginning to make sense. At a loss for any other method of demonstration, Rudi began to trace the pattern he’d discerned with his feet. At first he moved hesitantly, unsure of the best way to proceed, but as he took one step after another a strange sense of confidence grew in him. The twisting path he followed seemed to become more obvious, almost as if he knew it already, and all he had to do was relax and trust in some inner voice…
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