Inside, the tent was surprisingly well-appointed. Rudi found himself tracking muddy footprints across a canvas groundsheet, evidently intended to insulate the occupant from the dampness of the earth beneath it, and the walls, though billowing a little, kept enough of the breeze out to raise the temperature within by an appreciable degree. A camp bed stood in one corner, the first such he’d ever seen, and a couple of folding chairs stood next to a lightweight table on which the remains of a meal were still scattered. Despite himself, he couldn’t resist taking an interest in the bread and cheese on the platter. It had been a long night and the hastily snatched food he’d eaten before leaving the drugged mercenaries back at their camp had long since worn off.
“Help yourself if you’re hungry,” Gerhard said, noticing the direction of his glance. He followed Rudi and Hanna through the flap and secured it, after a perfunctory nod to the two soldiers on guard outside.
“That might be a bit difficult,” Hanna said acidly.
Gerhard nodded and produced the key to her manacles. “I take your point,” he said mildly, releasing her wrists. Hanna rubbed them for a moment, glaring defiantly at the witch hunter, and reached up to the crimson seal disfiguring her forehead, but before she could touch it she winced and her hand fell away again.
“Don’t think for a moment that this civilised act of yours is fooling anyone,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. Gerhard shrugged.
“If you’d rather go hungry to prove a point, feel free,” he replied, seating himself comfortably in the nearest chair. As he turned away, Hanna’s hand crept towards her bodice and the knife she’d concealed there when the mercenaries had divided up the spoils from the dead skaven, clearly wondering whether she’d be able to draw it and stab the witch hunter before he had time to react.
Rudi caught her eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly, acutely conscious of the spare blade he’d tucked into his boot at the same time she’d acquired her own dagger. He blessed the foresight which had led him to follow Conrad’s advice and carry a second one where the soldiers’ perfunctory search of the captives had failed to find it. The hidden weapons were the only chance they had of turning the tables, but attacking Gerhard here would gain them nothing. Even if they could beat him, and he honestly doubted that, the commotion would attract the attention of the soldiers outside long before they could escape.
Biding their time was the only sensible option if they were to have any hope of getting away. He tried to ignore the little voice which told him they had precious little time to do that if they were going to rescue Fritz. Besides, the desperate hunger for answers which had consumed him ever since Gunther Walder’s final words was back, driving all other thoughts from his head.
“What do you want to know?” he asked, helping himself to a chunk of bread and cheese. After a moment, Hanna joined him, her eyes still directing a stream of venom at the witch hunter. She began bolting the food as though she hadn’t eaten for days. After a moment, catching his look, she slowed down, looking faintly embarrassed.
“That failed spell really took it out of me,” she said.
Gerhard nodded. “I gather that’s fairly common,” he said. “Especially with one as powerful as that.” His tone was no more than mildly curious. “Where did you learn it?”
“I didn’t,” Hanna said. “I just know how it’s done.”
“Really?” The witch hunter sounded politely sceptical. “Most of the witches I’ve encountered have had a mentor. A few have learned petty magicks purely from books, although the ability to do that without guidance or losing their souls in the process is extremely unusual. None of them have been able to cast powerful spells spontaneously.”
“Perhaps you don’t know as much as you think,” Hanna snapped. To her visible annoyance, Gerhard laughed, with every appearance of genuine good humour. Remembering how the witch hunter’s affable demeanour had suddenly changed to cold murderousness after he’d refused to let him read the letter he’d been carrying when they first met, Rudi wasn’t fooled for a moment.
“My dear young lady, the only thing I’m absolutely sure of in my pursuit of the minions of Chaos is how little I truly know of their nature and intentions.”
“So we’re agents of Chaos now, are we?” Hanna chewed and swallowed, her words becoming a little more distinct as her mouth cleared. “Is that better or worse than heretics?”
“That depends on how willing your service to the dark gods is.” Gerhard folded his hands. “Some of their agents are unwitting dupes. Others are well aware of their true masters. Which are you, I wonder?”
“We’re neither,” Rudi snapped, feeling his face flush with anger. “Our lives were perfectly peaceful until you accused us of heresy for no reason at all.”
“No reason?” Gerhard shook his head. “The son of a Chaos worshipper and the daughter of a sorceress, who just happens to be a witch herself. What exactly do you feel is unfair about my accusation under the circumstances?”
“My father was a forester,” Rudi snapped. “A Taalist! He never had anything to do with Chaos in his life!”
“I beg to differ.” The witch hunter’s voice took on a harder tone. “His body was found among a coven of cultists attempting some damnable sorcery, in pursuit of which they’d all but sucked the life out of an entire village.”
“That can’t be true,” Rudi insisted, fighting to remain impassive. Memories of that fateful night in the forest rose unbidden in his mind and he dreaded the reflection of them appearing on his face. The gathering he’d stumbled into, guided by some instinct he couldn’t name, had seemed more like a celebration than anything to do with dark sorcery. His father had been there, true, and so had Magnus, the richest merchant in Kohlstadt and a good friend to both, but before either of them could explain the reason for their presence the party had been attacked by beastmen. His father had been cut down before his eyes and only the intervention of the inhuman thing which had once been Hans Katzenjammer, who seemed to have found refuge with the mutants’ warband, had saved his life.
“It most certainly is.” Gerhard inclined his head. “There were no survivors in a fit state to talk, but enough of their families and associates were forthcoming for me to be able to piece together something of what had been going on.”
“So how many more innocent people did you burn after we left?” Hanna snapped.
Gerhard looked surprised at the question. “None at all. I’ve never burned an innocent in my life. Most of your fellow villagers were guilty of nothing more than an inability to comprehend the true meaning of what had been going on around them for so many years. If that were a capital crime we’d soon run out of stakes.” He shrugged again. “There were only a couple of willing accomplices and they paid the full price of their bargain with the Lord of Decay, you can be sure of that.”
“Who?” Rudi asked, his head spinning.
Gerhard gave him a level stare, searching his face for Sigmar knew what. “Would you say you were blessed by the grandfather?” he asked. Despite himself, Rudi felt a jolt of recognition at the question. Magnus had mentioned his grandfather’s blessing that night in the woods, just before the beastmen attacked. Hoping his confusion hadn’t shown on his face, he shook his head.
“I’ve no idea who my grandparents were,” he said. “I was a foundling. Surely everyone in Kohlstadt told you that.” And no doubt nodded wisely as they did so, relishing the confirmation of all the gossip about him that had accumulated over the years.
“They did.” Gerhard nodded too. “But you must have come from somewhere.”
“My father—I mean Gunther Walder—found me in the forest when I was little more than a year old. I’ve no memories of any other life.”
“I see.” The witch hunter nodded, turning to Hanna. “And who was your father?”
“I’ve no idea.” Hanna glared at him, affronted at the question, clearly stung by its implication about her mother’s morals. “He died before I was born. Mother neve
r spoke about him.”
“But she taught you to use magic, didn’t she?” Despite his interrogative tone it sounded like a statement rather than a question.
Hanna sighed, realising there was no point in denying it. “Just a few simple spells. To help us help people, that’s all. There’s nothing evil in being able to light a kitchen fire or see in a darkened room.”
“Or incinerate anyone you think of as an enemy?” Gerhard asked mildly.
“I don’t make a habit of that,” Hanna said, with heavy irony. “You’re an exception, believe me.”
“I suppose I ought to be flattered,” Gerhard said. “But it is hard not to take these things personally.”
“How do you expect me to take it?” Hanna shouted, before bringing her voice back under control with a visible effort. “You killed my mother.”
“In all fairness, she was trying to kill me at the time.” The witch hunter nodded reprovingly. “I’d gone to her cottage to consult her about the progress of the fever in the village, which by that point I was convinced was far from natural. No doubt if she’d been expecting me she would have removed certain items from the room, or concealed them more carefully. As it was, I noticed them the moment I walked in.”
“What items?” Hanna asked.
By way of an answer Gerhard picked up a quill and a scrap of paper from the chest beside the bed and sketched for a moment.
“Do you recognise this?” he asked.
Rudi felt an inexplicable sense of loathing rise up in him as he stared at the hastily inked lines. They were the same as the ones tattooed on the beastman he’d found dying in Altman’s field, and that Hans had daubed on himself before going into battle against the people in the forest.
Hanna nodded. “It’s a picture frame,” she said impatiently. “We had one like it in the cottage, round the icon of Shallya.” Comprehension suddenly dawned in her eyes. “Is that it? You thought it was some Chaos thing?”
“It is.” Gerhard consigned the scrap of paper carefully to the flame of a nearby candle, holding it gingerly between finger and thumb until every trace of the sketch had been reduced to ashes. “It’s the sigil of one of the dark gods.” He smiled, without mirth. “Clever, in its own twisted way. She could pray to her patron openly, while appearing to invoke the goddess of healing. And any fellow cultist passing by would recognise a kindred soul.”
“You killed her for that?” Outrage made Hanna’s voice rise in pitch. “Because you thought a picture frame was an icon of Chaos?” She made a sound of disgust deep in her throat. “You’re the twisted one, not her!”
“As soon as she realised I’d recognised it, she attacked me,” Gerhard went on, as though the interruption had never come. “Using sorceries more potent than you can even imagine. If Sigmar hadn’t blessed me with His protection I would have died on the spot.” He made the sign of the hammer as he invoked the holy name. “Even so, I barely made it back outside to rejoin the militia detachment I’d co-opted. I expected her to follow and warned my companions to be on their guard, but instead she barred the door.”
“So you set fire to the cottage and burned her to death.” Hanna glared hotly at him, tears of anger welling in her eyes. A familiar expression of concentration flickered across her face and Rudi flinched, anticipating another globe of incandescent death flaring into existence in the air in front of her. But instead the girl staggered, clasping her hands to her head with a cry of pain. Rudi stepped in to support her, finding her surprisingly light in his arms, and led her to the vacant chair. His guess about the purpose of the seal on her forehead seemed correct.
“She would have burned anyway,” Gerhard pointed out, his tone as conversational as ever. “It made no difference in the long run. She was a witch, after all.” The implication was clear, and Hanna paled as his eyes turned towards her.
“If that’s what you’ve got in mind for me, then why not get on with it?” Her tone was defiant, but Rudi knew her well enough to detect the undercurrent of fear in her voice.
Gerhard nodded thoughtfully. “I’m afraid your execution is a foregone conclusion. Your practice of witchcraft makes that inevitable. But there are far less painful and protracted ways of carrying out the sentence than burning.”
“What are you saying, exactly?” Rudi asked, conscious that once again events were moving in an unexpected direction. Gerhard filled a goblet from a pitcher of water on the table and handed it to the girl. Rudi half expected her to throw it in his face, but she seized it in trembling hands and drank deeply.
“I want information. A good deal of it, from both of you. If I get it, her death will be swift and painless.” The witch hunter shrugged. “Otherwise she burns. Clear enough?”
“If I’m going to die anyway, why should I help you at all?” Hanna asked. Though her voice was still defiant, her face was white, and she slumped in the chair as though her bones had liquified.
“That’s your choice, of course. Perhaps after you’ve seen your friend burn you’ll be in a better position to make up your mind.” He turned to the tent flap and lifted it, glancing quizzically at the small patch of sky thus revealed. It was the thin, translucent grey which precedes the dawn. “That’ll be in about half an hour’s time if I’m any judge.” He stepped through the flap, glancing back at the prisoners within. “Perhaps you’d like to talk it over while I check on the arrangements?”
* * *
“We have to get out of here,” Hanna said grimly, sliding the dagger out of her bodice as soon as the witch hunter had gone.
Rudi nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me.” He glanced around the tent, looking for anything which could help them. The wooden chest next to the bed caught his eye and he opened it hastily. Clearly the captain had forgotten to lock it in the confusion of their abrupt arrival. It contained clothing, for the most part of a quality and cut far superior to the garments he was used to, and he briefly considered stealing some as a makeshift disguise. A moment’s more rational thought dissuaded him: he had no idea of the significance of the various items of heraldry embroidered on practically everything he could see, and the risk of discovery from acting inappropriately for his assumed station was far too great. They’d just have to try to blend in with the bustle of the camp as they were. That shouldn’t be too hard, he’d seen plenty of apparent civilians on their way in. Even a few women, so with any luck Hanna wouldn’t stand out too much either.
His eye fell on the seal in the centre of her forehead, and he touched his own in the same spot as he met her gaze.
“That’ll have to go,” he said.
“Too right.” Hanna reached up towards it and winced as her hand approached the thing. For a moment she persisted, her expression growing ever more pained the closer she came to touching it, then gave up with a stifled cry of anguish. “I can’t. It won’t let me.”
“What do you mean it won’t let you?” Rudi moved next to her, apprehension coursing through his body. Time was flooding away and they had to get moving.
“I can’t touch it. It feels like needles in my head.” She sighed with frustration. “I can’t take it off.”
“Let me try.” Rudi reached out a cautious hand, but before he could reach it, she twisted her head away.
“Stop it! It hurts!” She pushed him in the chest, opening up the space between them.
“We’ll just have to deal with it later.” Rudi rummaged through the pile of clothes again, not sure quite what he was looking for. At the bottom of the chest was a travelling cloak, plain and unadorned and showing the marks of hard use. Evidently the captain was practical enough not to bother with his finery in the field. “Try this on.”
Hanna took it. It was a little too large for her, but that was no bad thing. With the hood pulled forwards enough of her face was hidden to conceal the waxen blemish.
“It’ll do,” she said after a moment. She hefted the dagger in her hand, a little uncertainly. “How do we take out the guards?”
“Maybe we wo
n’t have to,” Rudi said. The prospect wasn’t one he relished. Despite the lessons he’d learned from Theo Krieger and the inexplicable sharpening of his reflexes he’d noticed in his fight with Fritz, he was by no means sure he’d be able to hold his own against a pair of trained soldiers. Even if he could, the noise would be bound to attract attention and he shied away from the prospect of what victory would probably mean. He’d come close to killing Fritz in the heat of combat, but he’d never actually taken a human life, and the thought of doing so in cold blood disturbed him.
He drew his own blade from its hiding place and stepped to the side of the tent. Faint torchlight stained the canvas of the back a dull flickering orange and the occasional shadow danced across it, indicating that there was a thoroughfare of some kind behind them. Breaking out there would draw as much attention as trying to get past the guards. But the sides were dark, which seemed more promising.
“What are you doing?” Hanna asked.
Rudi shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’m making this up as I go along.” He poked the tip of his dagger through the weave of the fabric and cut down. As he’d hoped, the faint tearing sound was lost in the general bustle of the camp. He poked his head out and looked around cautiously.
To his great relief, there was no one about. Another tent stood a yard or so away, forming a narrow alleyway between them. Dim torchlight leaked down the narrow passage from both ends, but the middle was reassuringly dark. He enlarged the slit carefully, stepped through, then turned to proffer a helping hand to Hanna. To his vague surprise she took it.
“Which way?” she whispered, returning her dagger to its sheath. Rudi did the same, not wanting to draw any more attention to themselves than they could help.
“Over there.” He gestured towards the rear of the tent, then glanced towards the front, momentarily afraid that they’d made enough noise to attract the attention of the guards. Something about the pattern of shadows by the side of the tent seemed odd and he studied it for a moment before realisation dawned. “Stay here for a moment.”
02 - Death's City Page 2