by C. L. Werner
Thulmann and Silja’s study of the town records had yielded better fruit. The histories and legends of the region suggested quite a few likely locations. The underfolk were a lazy race, never forsaking the opportunity to spare themselves hard work if it could be avoided. If there was a skaven lair in the area, then it was more than likely it had started out life as something else before the ratkin claimed it for their own. The town records had contained references to goblin caves, ruined watchtowers, troll holes and more than a scattering of deserted villages. Above all, there was the prospect of the old dragon lair, a cavernous pit clawed in the belly of a mountain, just the sort of place a skaven would happily make into a stronghold. Krieger digested this information carefully, making suggestions about one avenue of investigation or another. At length it was decided that they would make further, more restrained, inquiries on the morrow and then make preparations to check out whatever location seemed the most promising.
After the discussion broke apart, Thulmann tracked down Streng, finding the mercenary lounging at one of the tables in the taproom.
The witch hunter sat down beside his henchman. ‘Tell me everything you were able to learn,’ Thulmann said, his voice lowered.
Streng leaned back in his chair, a lead stein clenched in his fist. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t much,’ Streng replied. ‘That Driest can’t hold his ale too good, and that dummy Gernheim holds it a bit too well. Kept trying to get Driest to shut up every time he started to say something too interesting.’ Streng sucked at his teeth, spitting a bit of gristle from his dinner onto the floor. ‘I did manage to learn that your pal Krieger might not be quite the loyal son Zerndorff thinks he is. Seems he’s been doing the odd favour for some of the other big-wigs in the temple now and again, strictly under the table and without Zerndorff knowing anything.’
‘Krieger’s an opportunist,’ Thulmann stated. ‘I already knew as much. His only loyalty is to his own ambition.’
‘But did you know he met with Arch-lector Esmer just before we left Altdorf?’
‘Now that is interesting,’ Thulmann agreed, wondering what Krieger and the soon-to-be grand theogonist had discussed. ‘Did Driest say anything else?’
‘Not about Krieger, anyway. Gernheim got a bit too intrusive. Seems he could see I wasn’t as drunk as I let on, even if Driest was oblivious.’ Streng took a swallow from his stein and laughed. ‘I’ll have to play our little game again, for real next time. That reminds me, you owe me five silver shillings.’ The mercenary extended his hand towards Thulmann, waiting while the witch hunter dug the coins from his purse and set them in his palm. The witch hunter rose to leave, but Streng motioned for him to stay.
‘Learned a few things about your other playmate as well,’ the thug stated. ‘When Driest stopped talking about Krieger, I thought it might be smart to turn things around and see what he knew about Haussner.’
‘I am well acquainted with that fanatic’s career,’ Thulmann said.
Streng nodded his head. ‘Yes, but do you know anything about his past? Did you know for instance that his name used to be von Haussner, as in Count von Haussner? Used to have a big estate somewhere up near the Middle Mountains. Then, one day, he learned where the countess was spending her free time. He had his servants accuse her and her lover of witchcraft, took it so far that both were burned in fact. It was only after they were dead that his sister-in-law finally confessed that it was she, not the countess who had been sleeping around on her husband. Haussner’s wife was guilty only of helping her sister cover up the affair. Seems that bit of information really rattled Haussner’s cage. The sister-in-law had a little accident coming down a flight of stairs and afterwards the count denounced his title and donated all of his lands and wealth to your temple. As a reward for his piety, the temple elders appointed Haussner a templar in the Order of Sigmar.’
Thulmann sat in silence for a moment, absorbing Haussner’s sordid history. That Haussner was a deranged fanatic he already knew, but Streng now raised the very likely possibility that the man was insane as well. It also went a long way to explaining the unreasoning hatred Haussner exhibited towards women. ‘We’ll have to keep a closer eye on Brother Peder,’ Thulmann said. ‘It sounds as if his mind walks a very fine line. I don’t want it falling off while Silja’s around.’
The witch hunter rose to his feet, heading upstairs to retire, leaving Streng to his alcoholic indulgences. Tonight, at least, he was in no mind to reprimand the mercenary for his vices.
An hour later, a restless Streng was pacing across the hallway, nursing a bottle of port. He lifted his head when he heard a door creak open on the landing above and smiled as he saw Silja Markoff emerge from her room. The mercenary gave her a lewd wink when she looked in his direction. The woman ignored him, turning and pacing down the hall to Thulmann’s room. Streng laughed and shook his head, taking another swallow from his bottle as he slowly made his way back towards the taproom. He seemed to recall a small keg of beer Schieller had left out in the open, and was rather keen to see if his memory was sound. Thulmann would be too occupied to reprimand him for taking advantage of their host’s hospitality.
The mercenary had just reached the stairs when a scream wailed down the hallway, a cry of shock and horror. Streng spun around, running down the corridor. The voice had been Silja’s and the scream had come from Thulmann’s room.
CHAPTER NINE
Shadow filled the witch hunter’s room as Silja opened the door and slipped inside. She could hear Thulmann’s heavy breathing rising from the bed, worn out by the dual toils of scouring Wyrmvater’s records and of restraining the excesses of his fellow templars. Dealing with the likes of Haussner might wear anybody out.
Silja felt a moment of guilt as she listened to the sound of Thulmann sleeping. The witch hunter did not rest easily. He must be wholly exhausted. She reached behind her for the door, intending to steal back into the hallway. Her hand froze on the brass latch.
Something moved inside the room, and scurried across the floor. The sound caused her eyes to stray towards the window. There was a shape perched there, something small and grotesque, with a fat body and a grossly swollen head. She could not see its face, but she had the impression it was snarling. The creature clutched a large sack. As Silja watched, the creature shook the bag, forcing something to fall from it to the floor with a sharp slap. Whatever it was squeaked in agitation, beady red eyes glaring in the darkness.
The sight of the strange shape had stunned Silja for a moment, but she soon found her voice, and screamed a warning she hoped would be heard in every room in the Splintered Shield. The apparition withdrew, dropping down from its perch on the sill. At the same time, Silja heard Thulmann rolling over in his bed, looking for the weapons she knew he’d have set on the sideboard. The scurrying sound intensified as the echoes of her scream died away.
‘Mathias! There’s something here!’ Silja cried out and then cursed herself. In diverting her attention to her lover, she’d lost sight of whatever menace the strange creature at the window had left behind. Her eyes scoured the darkness, trying to find some sign of it again. She thought she saw black shapes hurrying about the room, scrambling under the legs of chairs and along the bases of the walls.
‘Up here. Get off the floor!’ Thulmann shouted. The witch hunter was standing at the edge of the bed, a pistol in his hand. With his other he reached towards Silja. Silja did not hesitate, springing towards Thulmann’s outstretched hand. As she leapt to safety, she felt something flash past her leg, and fancied she could hear the snap of jaws closing around the empty air behind her. Thulmann pulled her up beside him, wrapping his arm around her in a protective gesture.
The scurrying claws scratched across the floor all around them, sometimes punctuated by shrill squeaks and whines. Silja felt her fear mounting. It was certain from the sound that the prowler had set more than one of the things loose in the room.
‘What are they?’ Silja whispered into Thulmann’s ear, realising now that any n
oise might draw the attention of the unseen lurkers.
Thulmann continued to scan the darkness, head turning at every sound, his pistol at the ready. ‘Rats,’ he whispered back. ‘I saw one as I grabbed the guns.’
‘Rats?’ Silja almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the thought. They had stood side by side against the daemonic filth of Baron von Gotz, against the undead wrath of Sibbechai, now they cowered like frightened children before simple rats.
The witch hunter’s grip only tightened around her waist as he heard the incredulous note in her voice. ‘These are not like any rats you have ever seen before,’ Thulmann whispered, and the concern in his voice removed any doubt in Silja’s mind that the things scurrying around the room were anything to underestimate.
Silja hurriedly pulled one of the heavy blankets from Thulmann’s bed and hurled it in the direction of the scurrying sounds. Angry squeals told her that at least some of the rats had fallen foul of her improvised weapon. Then something large and hairy flung itself onto the bed, hissing and spitting at them, red eyes gleaming in the dark. Thulmann dived upon the thing, pinning it beneath his hand and smashing it with the butt of a pistol.
Silja could see the struggling shapes pinned beneath the blanket she had thrown. Nearer at hand, however, was the mangled thing struggling beneath Thulmann’s grip. It was nearly the size of a fox, yet its shape was certainly that of a rat. Much of its fur had sloughed away, exposing a pale, blistered skin and ropes of green pulsating veins. An evil black froth bubbled from its fanged jaws, while trickles of pus dripped from its eyes. With the light to guide him, Thulmann set the butt of his pistol smashing down into the over-sized vermin’s skull, crushing it like an egg. The witch hunter rose from his grisly labour and then flung himself at the trapped vermin on the floor, stomping them within their prison of wool and thread.
Thulmann was breathing hard before the struggling rats grew still. One of the crippled vermin tried to scuttle away. The witch hunter turned on it, kicking the mangled carcass across the room. He spun around, hurrying back to Silja. ‘Did they touch you?’ he demanded, despair in his voice, his eyes scanning her for any trace of injury.
‘I’m fine,’ Silja protested, trying to pull away.
‘You are certain you are all right?’ Thulmann whispered. When Silja nodded, Thulmann stepped down from his perch, turning over the carcass of the rat he had killed with the barrel of his pistol. ‘I think you should find that even a small bite from these diseased fangs would prove as deadly as a dragon’s kiss.’ The witch hunter flopped the thing onto its back, exposing its wasted belly. A long scar ran down its length, the injury sealed by a crude cross-stitch of what looked like sinew. ‘And I think they were designed that way.’
Silja dropped down beside him, careful to keep her feet clear of any of the rat blood spattered on the floor. ‘When I came in, I saw someone – something – at the window. It had a large sack in its hands. I saw it drop one of the rats into the room, that was when I screamed.’
The rattle of armour caused them to turn back towards the doorway. Still tightening the straps on his chest plate, Captain-Justicar Ehrhardt lumbered into the room, his intense gaze sweeping the chamber. ‘What did I miss?’ the Black Guardsman demanded.
‘Only a bit of pest extermination,’ Thulmann said and then returned his attention to Silja. ‘This creature you saw, was it a skaven?’
Silja was quiet for a moment, conjuring up the image of the strange shape she had seen at the window. That weird apparition still seemed somehow unreal, even with its handiwork scattered all around her. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t think so. It was smaller and fatter. Its head was malformed in some way, but I’m certain it had a face.’
‘Goblins?’ Ehrhardt asked. Thulmann shook his head.
‘I don’t think so,’ the witch hunter said. ‘Surgically altered giant rats infested with a nice cocktail of disease seems a bit sophisticated for goblin-work.’ He stepped around the bed, pulling clothes from the chair he had thrown them onto before retiring. ‘Disease. Malformed mutants. A keen interest in seeing me dead.’ Thulmann ticked off each point by raising a finger as he made it. ‘Sounds as if we might be getting close, close enough to worry an old acquaintance of mine.’ Thulmann shook his head, gesturing at the splattered rats. ‘Although I had thought Dr Weichs had a higher opinion of me than this.’
‘You think Weichs is here?’ Ehrhardt demanded, a growl in his voice. The infamous plague doktor had unleashed the Stir blight on Wurtbad, slaughtering thousands, forcing the priests of Morr to dig vast plague pits outside the city. As a Black Guardsman, Ehrhardt took such ruthless trespass in the domain of Morr quite personally.
‘It is a very distinct possibility,’ Thulmann said. ‘I suggest we go outside and see if we can’t pick up my late caller’s trail and see where that takes us.’
A few minutes later found armour donned and weapons readied. There was just a chance that the would-be assassin’s trail might lead back to Weichs, and Thulmann had no intention of letting that chance slip through his fingers.
Rushing down the stairs, the witch hunter found his path impeded by a strange tableau. Streng, arms folded across his chest, was sitting on Lajos Dozsa’s back. As he saw his employer descending, the mercenary rose, grabbing the back of Lajos’s nightshirt and hauling the merchant to his feet.
‘I heard someone scream,’ Streng said. ‘Is everything well?’
‘Well enough,’ Thulmann replied. ‘No thanks to your besotted carcass.’
‘I was on my way up to help,’ Streng protested, ‘but I tripped over this scum tearing down the stairs as if Khaine was on his heels.’ The mercenary gave the nightshirt a savage tug, forcing a whine of protest from Lajos. ‘I knew you’d want words with him, so I thought I’d make sure he didn’t go anywhere.’
‘Did you now?’ Thulmann asked.
‘There weren’t any more screams, so one way or another I figured you were past my help.’ Streng tightened his hold on Lajos’s shirt, bringing a yelp of pain from the man.
‘Is that necessary?’ Lajos hissed. Streng only grinned back at him.
‘Where did you think you were going, strigany?’ Thulmann demanded. ‘Let me answer that for you,’ he continued before Lajos could reply. ‘You heard the scream as well and saw an opportunity to separate us from your dubious company.’
‘I was afraid something had happened to you,’ Lajos protested. Thulmann looked unconvinced, so the merchant hurried to explain. ‘Do I honestly look like I planned an escape?’ Lajos pulled at the waist of his nightshirt, indicating his lack of preparation. ‘You are the only one protecting me from that lunatic you brought with you from Altdorf. I’m sure he’d have me dancing from a tree as quick as say “good morrow” given half a chance.’
Mention of Haussner caused Thulmann’s eyes to narrow with a sudden realisation. He’d been too wrapped up in the moment, too focused on the recent attempt on his life. He hadn’t considered the absence of Haussner and Krieger until Lajos reminded him of it. Surely his fellow witch hunters could not have failed to hear Silja scream, or miss the commotion that followed? Thulmann had even seen Schieller peering inquisitively from behind his cracked door, frightened curiosity on his face. There might be no love lost between them, but the other templars would at least have sent one of their minions to see what had happened.
That is, if they were still in the Splintered Shield.
‘Where are Brother Kristoph and Brother Peder?’ Streng wondered aloud.
‘The tanner!’ Ehrhardt cursed, smashing his gauntlet into an armoured palm.
‘I fear Brother Ehrhardt has the right of it,’ Thulmann said. ‘I should have realised Krieger gave ground a bit too easily on that front.’ He was silent for a moment, weighing the trouble Krieger and Haussner might cause against his hopes for picking up the assassin’s trail. It did not take him long to reach the uncomfortable decision that his fellow witch hunters were the more immediate danger. ‘Streng, my would-be k
iller came and went by means of the window. See if you can’t find some sort of track for us to follow later. Brother Ehrhardt, please lead the way to the tanner’s. Lets see if we can’t put an end to whatever misery those two are stirring up before it goes too far.’
‘What about me?’ Lajos asked. Five sets of unsympathetic eyes turned on him. ‘Surely you don’t expect me to go gallivanting around town dressed like this?’
‘Unless you want someone to carry you,’ Thulmann stated, pushing past the merchant.
As soon as they set foot outside the inn, Thulmann knew it was too late. Any hopes he might have had that he could contain Haussner’s overzealous fanaticism were dashed the moment he heard the man’s raised voice shouting into the night. He wasn’t the only one, either. Every window in the town was lit up, anxious faces filling many, all eyes turned in the direction of Wyrmvater’s square. Thulmann cursed again and set off at a run towards the square.
The scene unfolding in the square confirmed all of Thulmann’s fears. Ropes had been flung across the wings of the dragon statue at the centre of the square and the nooses that dangled from the end of each rope had been tied around the necks of two battered and bleeding figures. Thulmann decided that they could only be the tanner Kipps and his wife. But his eyes did not linger too long on the sorry sight, drawn instead to the heap of broken furniture and straw that had been assembled a few yards from the statue. Two of Haussner’s flagellants stood beside the makeshift pyre while two others were tying a small, struggling shape to the framework of a ladder. Orchestrating the entire scene, fairly shrieking a litany from the Deus Sigmar into the night, was Haussner. It took Thulmann a few moments to spot Krieger and his henchmen. Unlike the fanatic Haussner, they seemed to be avoiding the limelight, keeping to the shadows cast by the town hall.