by Nathan Long
As she rounded the curve, her night vision picked out the little man’s paunchy form fleeing into the underground murk. He was limping now, as if he had a stitch in his side, and she could hear him wheezing like a bellows. She grinned, baring her fangs. Little mouse, she thought, you have only trapped yourself in a smaller maze.
He crossed a narrow bridge over the muck and staggered on towards an intersection of six tunnels, a great arched hexagon surrounding a wide basin of sludge more than twenty paces across. She raced after him. The little man looked back, then started waving his hands and arms as he stumbled on. Ulrika wondered if he was having some sort of seizure, and ran faster, hoping he wouldn’t die, or worse, collapse into the lake of sewage. She wanted to question him, and didn’t want to have to pull him out of the stew to do it.
He stumbled into the junction only ten paces ahead of her, but then, rather than take another corner in a vain attempt to elude her, he stopped, drew a great ragged breath and shouted a strange phrase.
Ulrika shielded her eyes as an explosion of blinding red light erupted into being around him. She skidded to a stop at the very edge of a ledge and went on guard, afraid it was some sort of attack, but nothing happened. She felt no magical sting, no tearing at her mind or soul.
She blinked and squinted as the light faded, looking around, then cursed. The mouse had gone. But where? She rose from her crouch and peered at the lake of muck, wondering if he had dived in, but she could see no bubbles or ripples. She crept to the intersection, sniffing and listening.
Again, the sewer stink hid his smell, but she thought she heard the tread of stealthy feet down the next tunnel to the left. She stepped to the mouth of it to look and listen. She had been right, there were definitely limping footsteps receding down it, but she could not see the man. She paused. It wasn’t the darkness. She could see a hundred yards down the tunnel, and it appeared empty, but the footsteps were closer than that. Had he turned himself invisible? There seemed no other explanation. She growled in her throat. So he was going to make it difficult. No matter. She still had her ears. And they heard better than any human’s.
A noise from behind her brought her head around – the scuff of shoe leather on brick. There was lantern light coming from another tunnel on the far side of the intersection. A silhouetted figure in a long coat and broad-brimmed hat appeared at its mouth, as tall and straight as the little man had been hunched and squat. It held a torch and a pistol in its gauntleted hands.
‘Halt, bloodsucker!’ it cried in stentorian tones. ‘My bullets are silvered!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
HUNTERS IN THE DARK
Ulrika edged back against the wall. The man was peering across the lake of muck, holding his lantern high and aiming his pistol at her. A shiver of fear shot up her spine. A witch hunter! And he knew what she was!
‘Stay where you are, monster!’
Her first instinct was to flee, for she didn’t want to lose her invisible quarry, but she also didn’t want to get a silvered pistol ball in the back. Her second instinct was to kill him and kick him into the sludge, or better yet, drain him, then kill him and kick him into the sludge – for the thrill of the hunt had stirred her hunger, and she was aching to feed.
Then she remembered Countess Gabriella’s admonition not to kill unless she was in mortal danger, and not to feed until she returned home. It would also not be very wise to drain and kill a witch hunter when the city was in the middle of a vampire panic. Even if he weren’t found, he would be missed, and suspicions raised. No. She could not kill him, and she could not flee. But what else was there? If he already knew she was a vampire, he could not be allowed to live.
But did he?
The man was making his way slowly across the narrow bridges that arched over the channels at the mouth of each tunnel, holding out the lantern to guide his steps. If he could barely see to walk, could he truly have identified her for what she was? Perhaps he was only making a guess.
With an effort, Ulrika forced her animal instincts down and retracted her claws and fangs. Perhaps this was an occasion where Countess Gabriella’s beguiling tactics would work better, where she could attempt to do things the Lahmian way. She winced, imagining herself cooing and showing her cleavage like some harlot. She had never won a lover like that. It was not in her nature. Why, hadn’t she wooed Felix with swordplay and forthright words?
The witch hunter crossed the last bridge and held up his lantern to look at her, all the while keeping his pistol trained on her heart. ‘A woman!’ he cried, then glared suspiciously. ‘Or a female fiend. Show me your teeth, wretch!’
‘Sir, I assure you–’ Ulrika began, but he aimed his pistol at her head.
‘Your teeth!’
With a sigh, Ulrika smiled as wide as she was able, showing her retracted canines. ‘Are… are you a vampire hunter, sir?’ she asked through her teeth.
‘I will ask the questions!’ he snapped, leaning in to squint into her mouth.
Close up, Ulrika could see that he was young – only a year or two past twenty at the most – and handsome in a hard, stern way, with fierce grey eyes and a strong, square jaw. Six rowan-wood stakes and a hammer were slung through his broad, brass-buckled belt, as well as another pistol and a heavy, basket-hilted sword, while bandoliers hung with glass vials of she-knew-not-what criss-crossed his broad chest and a silver hammer of Sigmar glittered on a chain at his throat.
‘What do you do here in the sewers?’ he asked. ‘And without a lamp? Do you see in the dark, then, fiend?’
Ulrika, swallowed, thinking fast. The lack of a light was indeed damning. What story could she tell? She thought back to the wooing of Felix. Swordplay and forthright words. It was worth a try.
‘I think we are here for the same purpose, sir,’ she said, showing him her drawn sabre. ‘I hunt a vampire too. Indeed, I was just now grappling with him. Did you see a bright light?’
‘Aye,’ said the witch hunter cautiously.
‘My lantern. It fell into the channel as we struggled. I thought I was next to fall, but your words and the light from your torch sent the monster fleeing. I thank you for it. You likely saved my life.’ She looked down the tunnel that the little man had disappeared into. ‘We may still catch him if you help me.’ She started towards the tunnel, beckoning behind her. ‘Come. Hurry.’
‘Stand where you are!’ the witch hunter barked. ‘Face me.’
Ulrika froze, then turned slowly. The witch hunter stepped closer to her, examining her from head to foot, his lip curled.
‘A female vampire hunter?’ he said. ‘I have never heard of such a thing. Why do you wear men’s clothes? How do you come to this profession?’
‘Sir, our quarry is slipping away,’ Ulrika said. ‘Perhaps we could talk on the way–’
‘Answer the question!’
Ulrika sighed, buying time to craft a reply, then spoke. ‘I wear men’s clothing because hunting is impossible in skirts, and I did not choose this profession, it chose me. I hunt because…’ She paused, as if choked up and, truth to tell, an unexpected surge of emotion did well up in her as she imagined a tale that was almost but not quite her own. ‘Because my sister was seduced by a vampire, and given the curse of unlife against her will. The thing stole her from the man she loved, from the country she adored, from her friends and father, then made her into a monster and abandoned her in a cold, evil place.’ She raised her chin. ‘I have sworn vengeance upon all his kind ever since.’
The witch hunter’s face lost some of its anger as he listened to her story, becoming sad and cold. ‘And did you kill your sister?’ he asked.
Ulrika swallowed, remembering Countess Gabriella pointing through the open window of her tower room to the bright dawn beyond and telling her that she might walk in the sun at any time. She hung her head. ‘I had a chance once. I failed to take it.’ Then she bared her teeth. ‘But the
vampire who turned her is dead.’
The witch hunter hesitated, then lowered his pistol. ‘You should not have flinched,’ he said. ‘Sparing your sister was a false mercy. She was already dead and her soul long lost. You would only have put her out of her misery.’
‘Aye,’ she said, hiding a wince. ‘I know.’ She wished now she had told a different story, one that had not reminded her of her cowardice. At least it seemed to have convinced him. She had achieved a Lahmian victory. It hadn’t been nearly as enjoyable as a fight.
She looked up, trying to think of some way to bid him adieu and hurry after the little man, but she couldn’t think of a way to explain how she could continue hunting without a lamp in the dark. ‘Will you help me now? I have no light, and the fiend is escaping while we talk.’
The witch hunter frowned at her, considering. ‘I dislike leading a woman into such a business.’
‘But if you take me back to the surface you will never find him again.’
‘Aye,’ he said, then grunted unhappily. ‘Very well, but stay back.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ulrika, grinding her teeth. She pointed down the correct tunnel. ‘He went that way.’
The witch hunter nodded and started into the tunnel, his spurs ringing as he stomped ahead in heavy riding boots. Ulrika followed, cursing his plodding speed. They would never catch the little man at this rate, but perhaps they could at least follow his trail to his lair. His footprints showed clear enough in the slime that filmed the ledge.
‘What is your name, fraulein?’ the witch hunter asked as they trotted along.
‘Ulrika Straghov of Kislev,’ she said without thinking, and then immediately wondered if she should have given a false name. It was too late now. ‘And yours, mein herr?’
‘Templar Friedrich Holmann,’ he said, bowing curtly. ‘A witch hunter of the Holy Order of Sigmar.’
‘I am honoured,’ said Ulrika, though terrified was closer to the truth. She seemed to have won his trust for the moment, but she knew that the slightest slip of the tongue or lapse in her masquerade would bring his suspicious witch hunter nature to the fore again. She felt she was treading on eggshells every moment she was at his side.
They jogged on in silence for a moment, then Holmann coughed. ‘I know how difficult it is to be strong in the face of corruption, fraulein,’ he said. ‘Particularly when you discover it within your own family, but it must be done. I killed my own parents when I discovered they were mutants.’
Ulrika looked up at him, aghast. In a single sentence, he had proven all the tales she had heard of his kind correct. They would indeed sink to any depths to show their devotion to their faith. And yet…
And yet, she did not see the light of fanaticism blazing from the young man’s grey eyes. Nor did she hear the hectoring tone of boastful righteousness, only a grave, faraway sadness. He was not proud of what he had done.
‘It hurts to this day,’ he continued. ‘But I find strength in Sigmar, and you would be wise to do the same. In his teachings I have learned that I gave them release from their suffering.’
‘I pray you are right, mein herr,’ said Ulrika, and smiled sadly to herself. In his grim, ham-fisted way, the witch hunter was trying to comfort her, to give her courage for an unpleasant task. It was touching.
She remembered her father giving her a similar talk when she had been a little girl and hadn’t understood why he had taken her older brother out on a hunting trip one day, and not come back with him. It had been a hard thing for a child to hear, but on the northern marches, so close to the Chaos Wastes that their glow could be seen behind the mountains to the north every night, it was something to be learned and accepted young, for mutation there was terrifyingly common. There had been many others throughout the years – cousins, uncles, aunts, any number of peasants – some of which she had dispatched herself. It had been part of her duties as the boyar’s surviving heir – a difficult, painful task, but she had made herself believe, as Templar Holmann believed, that she was practising mercy. She wondered if one day she would have the courage to practise it on herself.
They came to another intersection in the tunnels and Holmann held the lantern close to the ground, trying to determine which way the little man had gone. Ulrika pointed to the footprints she saw going over one of the narrow bridges. ‘There. He’s gone straight on.’
Holmann gave her a look. ‘You have sharp eyes.’
Ulrika swallowed as he started off again. She had to be more cautious. She had forgotten how much better her inhuman eyesight was than his. ‘I inherited them from my father,’ she said.
As they ran on, her mind finally settled enough for her to wonder about things other than her own survival and catching the little man. For instance, why was Templar Holmann down in the sewers hunting vampires in the first place? Had he seen something? Had Mistress Alfina’s corpse been noted after all? Or had the witch hunter seen her killer?
‘What led you down here, Herr Templar?’ she asked at last. ‘Do we hunt the same vampire?’
Holmann shrugged. ‘I know not,’ he said. ‘A man came to my comrades and I while we were investigating a disappearance earlier, claiming to have seen a vampire climbing a fence near the Silver Lily.’
Ulrika stifled a groan. They had seen Alfina!
‘He was drunk,’ Holmann continued. ‘But a Templar of Sigmar must investigate even the most unlikely rumour of evil, so the captain dispatched me and Jentz to follow him back. We found nothing at the brothel, and Jentz berated the drunk for wasting our time.’
Ulrika breathed a silent sigh of relief. They hadn’t seen Alfina. Good.
‘Jentz wanted to return to the captain,’ said Holmann. ‘But I had a…’ He shrugged. ‘A feeling, I suppose, and wanted to look around a bit more. I sent him back, then scouted the area. A few streets away I found an open sewer grate, and went down to investigate.’ He looked back at Ulrika. ‘I had just given up searching when I heard shouting and saw your light.’
‘And thank Ursun you did,’ said Ulrika, though, in reality, she was cursing the god for the mischance that had led to their meeting. ‘Or I might be drowned in filth now.’
She glanced down to be sure of the little man’s tracks and stared. They were gone. She stopped and looked back. They had just passed a ladder.
‘Wait,’ she said, and padded back. ‘What is it?’ asked Holmann.
Ulrika looked at the rungs of the ladder. Yes. Someone had gone up them recently, and she could smell the little man’s distinctive clove scent on them. She glanced up through the circular chimney to the grate. It had been pulled aside, just like the one she had entered earlier. She was about to tell Templar Holmann that their quarry had gone above ground again when she realised that the sky showing through the grate had a faint grey tinge. She froze, frightened. Dawn was coming. What should she do?
She could not follow the little man’s trail through the city during the day. She would burn like a match. But if she stayed in the sewers any longer she would have to wait down there a whole day before she could return to Gabriella at Guildmaster Aldrich’s house. She couldn’t wait. She had to go back immediately and tell Countess Gabriella what she had discovered. But what excuse was she to give to Holmann for their parting that wouldn’t make him suspicious? She couldn’t just run off in the middle of the hunt after telling him she was a vampire hunter. Of course, she could just kill him. But she had promised not to kill. She needed a believable reason for splitting up.
Ah! She had it.
‘It seems he went up this ladder,’ she said, turning to Holmann. ‘But I think it might have been a feint to throw us off the trail. Look here.’ She stepped past him and pointed to the ledge further along the tunnel. There were no footprints there except their own, but Holmann hadn’t the eyesight to know that. ‘You see. It looks like he continues down the tunnel too.’
Holmann nodded as i
f he could see the prints. ‘Clever. So he continues down the tunnel?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ulrika. She stood up beside him, then shivered at the proximity. This close she could smell the blood in him, and hear it pounding, and the urge to feed grew like a fire in a hay loft within her. She fought it down with difficulty. She had to get away, as soon as possible. ‘We’ll… we’ll have to split up. You have the lantern. You follow the tunnel. I’ll go look in the street.’
Holmann nodded. ‘Very well. But how will we find each other again?’
Hopefully we won’t, thought Ulrika. I might not be able to resist temptation again. ‘Name the place,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait for you there.’
The witch hunter scratched his square chin. ‘The Armoury, in the Halbinsel. It is a tavern. You know it?’
‘I’ll find it,’ said Ulrika, and put a foot on the ladder. ‘Good hunting, Templar Holmann.’
And with that she scrambled up into the pearl-grey pre-dawn and ran, racing the sun and fleeing her hunger.
Ulrika cursed herself as she ran through the waking city. Why had she dismissed Aldrich’s coach? With it there would have been no trouble going home as the sun came up. Now it was going to be a race, and one with deadly consequences if she lost. She kept one eye always on the east, to watch the progress of the dawn. At first, there was almost no distinguishing the houses from the sky behind them, but as she wound through the Handelbezirk, where shopkeeps put out the morning’s wares and watchmen dragged off last night’s drunks, their silhouettes began to stand out against the brightening horizon, and as she reached the wall between the Neuestadt and the Altestadt, the sky had turned from grey to pink.
It had been nothing to pass through that wall in the coach of a wealthy merchant. The guards at the High Gate had saluted, and not bothered to look within. But as the coachman had warned, going back through alone in the early hours of the morning, dressed in patched male riding gear and speaking with a Kislevite accent, was going to be more difficult.