Witch Killer

by C. L. Werner

  ‘What in the name of Sigmar are you doing?’ Thulmann growled as he stormed towards Haussner. The fanatic turned on him, the Deus Sigmar clutched in his clawed hands, the fires of his zeal filling his eyes.

  ‘Not all of us are so remiss as to forget our duties and our oaths simply because their execution seems distasteful,’ Haussner declared. He closed the Deus Sigmar and stabbed a talon at the wretched figures of Kipps and his wife. ‘These heretics dared to lie to holy servants of Sigmar today. I would not allow such a slight against the temple to stand. From their forked tongues, I harvested the truth!’ Haussner spun around, swiping his hand in the direction of the flagellants with the ladder. Thulmann could see that the tiny shape they were binding was a terrified little girl, no more than eight summers old. Haussner gestured and he saw more. One of the flagellants pulled up the hem of the girl’s dress, exposing the black, gleaming hoof that replaced one of her feet. Thulmann heard Silja gasp in horror as the child’s mutation was exposed. His own feelings were no less sickened.

  ‘These heretics will hang for sheltering such filth! But first their lying tongues will be cut from their miserable heads that they may speak no further blasphemies against Lord Sigmar.’ One of Haussner’s minions stalked towards Kipps, a pair of brutal-looking metal tongs gripped in his hands. ‘And we will purge this village of its mutant taint!’ Haussner roared. ‘By the method proscribed by Sigmar’s holy law. By burning them!’ At Haussner’s gesture, the men with the torches set the pyre ablaze. Thulmann realised the jumble of wood must have been treated with oil or pitch, as the flames quickly took hold. The girl, lashed to the wooden ladder began to scream as the flagellants lifted her and started to carry her towards the fire.

  ‘Stop this, Haussner,’ Thulmann snarled, grabbing the fanatic’s shoulder. Ahead of him, Ehrhardt interposed his imposing armoured bulk between the ladder carriers and the flames. Even the crazed mendicant-monks realised that the sword clutched in the Black Guardsman’s hands was not an idle threat.

  ‘Those are strange words coming from a witch hunter.’ Thulmann turned his head to see that Krieger had emerged from the shadows to lend his support to Haussner’s brutality. ‘Brother Peder is engaged in one of our order’s most important duties – the extermination of mutants and those who would offer them sanctuary. A witch hunter of your reputation, Brother Mathias, has instituted such executions many times over, surely.’

  Thulmann could feel Silja’s shock like a knife twisting in his guts. It was one thing for her to accept the things he had been forced to do on an abstract, intellectual level. It was another to be there, to see the horror and monstrosity of it.

  ‘Not like this,’ Thulmann growled. He thought again of that small child in Silbermund, the one who had been treated for a leg injury by Weichs and his abominable medicines. She too had been young and innocent, yet the taint of Chaos had infested her flesh. Thulmann had ordered her destruction, knowing that there was no other way. But he’d ordered the child rendered insensible first, ensuring she would not know what happened. It was a far cry from the calculated brutality of Haussner’s methods. ‘Never like this.’

  ‘The creature is a mutant and must be destroyed.’ Haussner spat. ‘You know this! Call off that heathen thug and let the will of Lord Sigmar be done.’

  ‘Mathias, don’t let him!’ It pained Thulmann to hear the agony in Silja’s voice, the terror that edged her words. It was not the horror of the situation, but the horror that the man she loved would stand aside and let it happen.

  ‘And the others will be found!’ Haussner shrieked. ‘In whatever hole they have hidden themselves, in whatever pit they have buried their abominable flesh, they will be found.’

  Thulmann shook his head. ‘I can’t talk to this fanatic,’ he said. ‘Krieger, I would have words with you.’

  ‘If you think that would serve any purpose,’ Krieger replied, ‘but I warn you that I place a higher price on my soul than the charms of a…’ the witch hunter looked in Silja’s direction, his face twisting into a sneer, ‘…lady.’

  Thulmann bit down on his anger. Krieger was baiting him, trying to force him to lose control. He would not allow Krieger to take over the situation, to let him start playing the tune. Thulmann led Krieger some distance from the others.

  ‘We can’t let Brother Peder do this,’ Thulmann said, his voice lowered so that his words would not carry to Haussner. ‘He jeopardises our entire investigation with his fanaticism. There is more at stake here than burning one wretched mutant.’

  ‘He is only doing his duty,’ Krieger replied. ‘I thought you would be able to appreciate that. Besides, it is hardly one mutant. Brother Peder was most thorough in his interrogation of the heretics. He has discovered that there are several families in Wyrmvater hiding mutants in their attics and cellars.’

  Thulmann quickly digested the information, drawing from it a possibility he hoped would make Krieger at least see reason. ‘Don’t you see what that means? It means that something around here is polluting these people. It could be warpstone poisoning. Even a small trace of warpstone in the ground or water might work its way into the crops, and if there is warpstone…’

  ‘Then our skaven lair might be nearby as well,’ Krieger concluded. ‘A viable theory, Brother Mathias.’

  ‘Zerndorff sent us here to find Das Buch die Unholden,’ Thulmann reminded Krieger, ‘not to scour some Reikland backwater of mutants. I don’t think our next Lord Protector will be terribly pleased if we let his prize escape.’

  Krieger smiled at Thulmann, nodding his head. ‘Well played, Brother Mathias. You do indeed put things in their proper order.’ The smile broadened. ‘In truth, I couldn’t care less about Brother Peder’s mutants. I encouraged him only because I felt you were becoming a good deal too friendly with the peasants. It occurred to me that you might use that influence–’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Thulmann snapped. Krieger’s mind might be a morass of treachery and intrigue, but Thulmann found the suggestion that his own methods were similarly duplicitous revolting.

  ‘It is now,’ Krieger admitted. ‘Now we will all be in the same boat. After Brother Peder’s display tonight, the peasants won’t care who wears the black, they will all be afraid. Just as they should be.’

  ‘What about Brother Peder?’ Thulmann demanded.

  ‘He will do as I ask,’ Krieger said confidently. ‘I helped him with his… domestic… concerns once. He’ll do as I say. We can have the mutant and its parents locked away and burn them after we’ve found the book and have no further use for Wyrmvater or the “goodwill” of its people.’

  Thulmann watched in disgust as Krieger stalked back towards Haussner to give the fanatic his orders. He wondered if deep down Krieger cared about anything or anyone beyond their ability to further his ambitions. He also wondered just how far Krieger would allow those ambitions to take him.

  ‘Idiot!’ the old man snarled, his scrawny hand swatting across the brow of the misshapen creature beside him in the darkened alleyway. The mutated halfling cringed from the blow, slinking away from his furious master. Doktor Weichs turned his attention back to the town square and the black-garbed figure that was the focus of his wrath. The witch hunter should have been dead. The rats Lobo had set loose in Thulmann’s room were infested with one of the most virulent strains of plague that Weichs had ever come across in his studies. Yet there he stood, consulting his fanatical brethren.

  Perhaps they were even talking about him. The thought chilled Weichs to the bone, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility. Now that he had tipped his hand and tried to kill the witch hunter, Thulmann would be even more determined to hunt him down. He was already much too close for comfort and Weichs didn’t want to think of Thulmann getting any closer.

  It was time to convince Skilk to take a paw in matters. Thulmann might have escaped the trap Weichs had set for him, but the plague doktor didn’t think he would fare so well against the skaven.

  CHAPTER TEN

 
Thulmann watched the dawn slowly gather beyond the frosted glass of the window. He felt a wave of sudden fatigue grip him, as his restless body registered the passing of night and any chance for slumber. The witch hunter yawned, rubbing at his eyes. There had been many sleepless nights. He would suffer no worse for adding another to their number. There was much his mind still needed to sort through.

  Without Krieger, he was certain the standoff in the plaza could only have ended in blood. Haussner was beyond appreciating that by engaging in his crusade to purge Wyrmvater of whatever mutants it might harbour, he had put the more important mission to uncover the skaven warren and recover Das Buch die Unholden in jeopardy.

  If Haussner’s unreasoning fanaticism was a dark omen on their chances for success, then Krieger’s calculating ambition was an even blacker one. He could have stopped Haussner at any time, but hadn’t, more troubled by what he perceived as Thulmann’s growing influence with the townspeople than he was by the prospect of losing their aid. Krieger would brook no rival and Thulmann wondered just how much of the credit if they succeeded in capturing Das Buch die Unholden would be shared.

  Shared? The realisation suddenly hit Thulmann, the true rationale behind Krieger’s gambit. He wouldn’t share anything. By interfering with Haussner, by stopping the fanatic’s brutal and untimely execution of his duty, Thulmann had played right into Krieger’s hands. Thulmann could almost hear Krieger making his report to Zerndorff, giving voice to carefully worded accusations and insinuations. There were few charges so damning to a witch hunter as those of heresy.

  Of more immediate concern, however, was the effect the violent scene had had on the people of Wyrmvater. Nearly the entire town had watched, drawn from their beds by Haussner’s strident voice. Thulmann had seen the anxious, fearful look Reinheckel and his militiamen had given the witch hunters as they led Kipps and his family to the cells. He had seen the hate boiling in the eyes of the townsfolk, the unspoken curses on their lips, as they watched the witch hunters slowly make their way back to the Splintered Shield.

  The witch hunter rose from his chair, walking across the room to where his weapons belt hung from a nail in the wall. Thulmann wrapped it around his waist, drawing it tight. He cast an envious look towards the bed. If he could find sleep as easily as the woman did, perhaps he might be a contented man. With everything that had happened, there had been no question of letting Silja stay alone in her room. Who could say that their misshapen visitor might not return? No, he wanted Silja somewhere he could watch her and make sure she would come to no harm.

  Thulmann carefully opened the door, closing it softly behind him. He stalked down the stairs, towards the common room of the inn to greet the figure he had seen through the window. He heard the heavy oak door below open and close and boots stamping against the wood floor as their owner tried to coerce warmth back into his limbs. Streng’s grizzled frame loomed just within the entryway.

  ‘Well?’ Thulmann demanded. Streng stopped blowing on his cold hands to regard his master.

  ‘Found the tracks right enough,’ the mercenary stated. ‘Little things, not quite like a child’s and too wide for a goblin’s. Possibly a halfling. Round and round the town, down just about every alley and pig-run this muck-hole has to offer. Got me turned around so often I can’t tell you where he started from, much less where he went.’

  Thulmann sighed, rubbing again at his tired eyes. ‘Hardly the best of tidings, friend Streng. I had hoped that murderous mongrel might lead us back to its master. Fortunately, I think Herr Doktor Weichs will present us with another opportunity when he tries again.’

  ‘Unless he tucks his tail between his legs and runs off again,’ Streng replied, his voice a low growl. ‘If we lose that bastard I’m going to carve Haussner like a Pflugzeit goose. If it wasn’t for that idiot we might have caught this scum and tracked it back to Weichs!’

  The witch hunter placed a gloved hand on Streng’s shoulder. ‘Be at ease. There will be another opportunity. Weichs will try again, all we have to do is be ready for him when he does.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Streng challenged. ‘We’ve been one step behind that filth for nearly a year. How can you be certain he’ll stick around this time?’

  Thulmann’s voice grew grave as he answered. ‘Because I think things have changed. The good doktor can’t run any more. We’ve got him cornered at last… and that makes him more dangerous than ever.’

  Weichs cautiously walked through the vast, subterranean cavern. The ragged, gnawed walls of the cave curved upwards into the gloom. Small iron cages hung from the walls at intervals, a sickly green glow spilling through their bars and illuminating the cavern. The scientist could see the diabolical shine of warpstone in the walls of the pit and could feel the malevolent power of the substance in the air. Scattered about the cavern were picks and hammers, and a few larger tools for stripping the warpstone from the earth, huge devices with drills and claws, like monstrous beasts of steel and bronze.

  Small gangs of scrawny skaven, wretched slaves of the Skrittar, were hacking away at the walls, mining the warpstone for their masters. The scientist kept his distance from these half-mad dregs. Starved and crazed, Weichs knew such creatures might dash past the whips of their masters to gorge themselves on his flesh. The thought caused him to shudder: the most brilliant mind among all humanity reduced to a meal for the detritus of skaven society.

  Given a choice, he would never have descended into the mines, but Grey Seer Skilk had ignored Weichs’s plea to see it. After his failure to kill the witch hunter in Wyrmvater, Weichs knew that he didn’t have time to waste waiting for Skilk. He had to have the help of the skaven now, not when it suited the grey seer.

  Weichs found Skilk near the very centre of the cavern, where a large crevasse bisected the cave floor, creating a narrow crack that stabbed its way into the black depths of the earth. A stone altar had been erected on the flattest section of the floor. Eight massive iron spikes, as tall as a man and pounded deep into the rock were arrayed around the altar. A riotous array of bones, an assortment of animal, human and inhuman remains hung from the spikes.

  Weichs recognised the ugly characters that had been daubed onto each bone, it was the same ancient picture-script that figured in much of the profane lore contained within Das Buch die Unholden. The scientist knew these characters only too well, for they were the very ones revealed to him in the ritual he had translated for Skilk. He tried not to think upon what else the ritual required.

  Skilk was standing behind the altar, overseeing a pair of lesser Skrittar as the under-priests painted characters onto still more bones. Skilk turned his horned head as he smelled Weichs approaching. He gestured, motioning for one of the half a dozen armoured stormvermin surrounding him to fetch the human.

  ‘All smell like books,’ Skilk chittered. The skin-covered Das Buch die Unholden rested atop the altar and Skilk patted it with a black paw. ‘Kripsnik say soon,’ the grey seer hissed, avarice dripping from his muzzle. ‘Skilk like Kripsnik speak much!’

  Weichs found himself shuddering. The skaven, and the grey seers in particular, were horrible things, abominations that offended the senses of a man at the deepest, most primal level. How much more hideous then, to contemplate the prospect of evoking the loathsome spectre of one of their breed decades in the grave?

  Weichs forced himself to set aside his disgust at what Skilk intended to do and forced his mind back to the more immediate problem of Thulmann and the witch hunters. ‘Grey Seer, we have a problem,’ he said. ‘The witch hunter from Wurtbad has followed us here. He’s in Wyrmvater!’

  Skilk lashed his tail in amusement, one of the under-seers joining in with a chittering laugh. ‘Doktor-man thinks Skilk a fool? Skilk know hunter-man near long time. Hunter-man not stay long.’ The skaven laughed again, this time the scratchy, inhuman mirth spreading even to the armoured bodyguard.

  ‘Don’t underestimate him!’ Weichs protested. ‘I know this man. He is dangerous!’


  Skilk’s lips parted in a bestial snarl. Before Weichs could react, the grey seer lunged forward and a black paw closed around his throat. The skaven priest pressed Weichs’s body against the altar, his back arching over its pitted, stained surface. He could see the crazed, feral light in Skilk’s eyes; the ugly twinkle of madness and obsession.

  ‘Doktor-man thinks Skilk not dangerous?’ Skilk hissed. ‘Not fear hunter-man! Fear Skilk! Fear not Kripsnik! Doktor-man fears much!’

  The grey seer released his hold on Weichs, almost flinging the terrified scientist from him. Skilk hobbled his way back towards the under-seers. ‘Hunter-man die soon,’ Skilk promised. ‘Hunter-man not found doktor-man.’ Skilk turned his attention from Weichs, returning to his supervision of the other grey seers.

  Weichs rubbed at his throat, trying to massage the pain away. Skilk’s talons had torn the skin, causing tiny rivulets of blood to trickle down his neck. The old man pulled himself away from the altar, hurriedly making his way back across the cavern.

  He had been too fixated on the witch hunter to consider whether Thulmann might be the least of his worries. What if the ritual he had translated for Skilk failed? What if he had made a mistake? What if the damnable book had deceived him? Worse, what if it did everything Skilk wanted it to do?

  Perhaps Weichs had been a bit hasty in trying to get rid of the witch hunter. Perhaps the greater danger hanging over his head was not Thulmann but Skilk.

  ‘Of course the people are upset, but it will pass. Give them time and they will understand how Kipps put them all in danger by hiding his unfortunate progeny among them. The taint of mutation simply cannot be abided.’

  Burgomeister Reinheckel paused to take another sip from the beer stein Schieller had set before him on the table. The man smiled appreciatively as he finished, wiping foam from his moustache. Thulmann sat across the table from the burgomeister, not entirely reassured by his words.