by C. L. Werner
‘Unless someone has appointed you witch hunter captain of Wurtbad,’ a voice snarled back, ‘then I don’t believe you have any right to abuse my men.’ Thulmann turned his head to see Meisser stalking forward. A bandolier of pistols now crossed the templar’s chest. Meisser had changed his apparel, adopting a uniform as dark and nondescript as that of his men save for the pectoral medal that hung from a chain about his neck, a twin-tailed comet engraved upon it.
‘You are a guest here, Brother Mathias,’ Meisser went on. ‘I suggest you start behaving like one.’
Thulmann gritted his teeth. He should have expected something like this. He’d made it clear to Meisser the previous night that he wasn’t going to help him in his power struggle with the Ministry of Justice, told him in no uncertain terms he considered him a dangerous incompetent and a disgrace to the holy name of Sigmar. True, he’d lost control of himself following the fight with Sibbechai, assaulting and abusing Meisser in front of his own men. That was the kind of mistake that could make the scheming witch hunter captain show his teeth – an assault on his distorted ego. Thulmann had compounded his mistake by giving Meisser time to brood over his injured pride, to allow the reptile to muster the vitriolic venom that substituted for courage in his character.
‘Why are these men not looking for Sibbechai?’ Thulmann growled through his clenched teeth. Meisser set his good hand on his hip and snorted a contemptuous laugh
‘Why should they?’ he replied, defensive. ‘It is not our task. The Order of Sigmar is concerned with protecting the lives and souls of the Empire’s citizens. When a citizen has been corrupted by dabbling in proscribed magic or communion with profane deities, it is also our duty to seek them out and make them repent their crimes.’ A smile spread across Meisser’s swinish face. ‘Sigmar is the benevolent god of our glorious Empire, watching over every living subject that walks our land. This creature, this vampire, is one of the restless dead. Therefore it is not our problem. Sigmar is a god of the living. Morr is the god of the dead. I have informed the temple of Morr about this creature and they are thus compelled to investigate the matter. It is their jurisdiction, after all.’
‘Scum.’ Thulmann spat. ‘You filthy, conniving vermin. You cower behind words twisted beyond their meaning, like some snail slinking behind its shell! It is the duty of any servant of Sigmar to combat every menace to his Empire and his people, whatever form or shape it might take. How have you the gall to say the vampire is not our concern?’
Meisser retreated from the violence of Thulmann’s outburst, until there was half a room between them. ‘You must not try to involve the entire order in this personal vendetta of yours,’ Meisser declared. ‘The Raven Decree of 2345 made the clear distinction that the temple of Morr is to handle such matters.’
Thulmann shook his head in disbelief. How long had the filthy maggot burrowed through his books to dig up that piece of history? ‘The Raven Decree states that no templar is to violate the sanctity of any field of Morr without first notifying his priesthood,’ the witch hunter snarled. ‘It was never intended to place the responsibility for hunting and destroying the undead under the sole authority of the priests of Morr.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Meisser said, not wanting to continue an argument he could not win, ‘the priests of Morr are looking for your vampire now. This chapter house has more pressing matters with which to concern itself.’
A sharp stab of suspicion cut its way through Thulmann’s anger. What was the purpose of Meisser’s game? Clearly he had lost all taste for riding Thulmann’s coattails after he beheld the grotesque monster that the templar was hunting, but what scheme had he put in its place? Thulmann found himself wishing that Silja had accompanied him back to the chapter house. With her knowledge of Wurtbad’s politics, she would surely recognise what Meisser was plotting.
Meisser smiled again, mistaking silence for a submissive retreat. ‘We are to help the baron’s men clear out the ghetto. Round up every plague-stricken dreg and send them to Otwin Keep,’ he added with a touch of pride. ‘That is, if you will tell your man to stand down and let us get about our work.’
Streng looked up at Thulmann. ‘I don’t have your way with words,’ the thug grunted. ‘Had to find a way to keep them here until you showed yourself.’ The witch hunter relieved his henchman of his crossbow. Meisser’s smile broadened, but it died when Thulmann swung the crossbow in his direction.
‘I’ve had a taste of the baron’s edict, captain,’ he said. ‘The Order of Sigmar will smell better for staying clear of it. I’d expect a true officer to recognise that fact.’ Thulmann directed his words at Meisser, but his gaze swept the faces of the other witch hunters. He’d read the situation correctly – none of them had any taste for Baron von Gotz’s draconian command. Now he’d give them an alternative. ‘I believe last night’s ordeal has taxed you greatly, captain, and under such strain and fatigue you are not yourself. Since that is the case, I must temporarily assume your duties as my own.’
‘Khaine’s blood, you will!’ cursed Meisser, his face livid. The witch hunter captain reached for one of the pistols hanging from his chest. The other Wurtbad templars sprang into motion, pistols and hand crossbows appearing from beneath cloaks or inside leather holsters. None of them was pointed at Mathias Thulmann. Face twisted into a scowl, Meisser let his hand fall away from his weapon.
‘It seems I already have,’ Thulmann pronounced, looking across the room at the men who pointed weapons at their former commander.
‘Traitors! Heretics!’ Meisser roared.
‘Brother Mathias is right, captain,’ a white-headed witch hunter named Tuomas stated. ‘You are not yourself. You need a reprieve from the burden of command.’ The consoling words did nothing to soothe Meisser’s ire.
‘You are all apostates!’ he snarled. ‘Sigmar’s grace has deserted Wurtbad, Chaos walks the land and we are all damned to the Pit.’ Meisser spun about on his heel, stalking back to his study.
‘He took that rather well.’ Streng grinned weakly as he watched him leave.
Thulmann paid no attention to his underling. He had read the feelings of the men correctly – pious, zealous men who chafed under the leadership of an inept scoundrel like Meisser, who had been ready to abandon ship as soon as an alternative presented itself. Thulmann gave the witch hunters their orders. Enough time had already been wasted, Sibbechai’s lair had to be found before darkness descended upon Wurtbad once more.
But there was another concern just as pivotal. Six of the witch hunters would coordinate with the priests of Morr and help them in the hunt for Sibbechai, but he needed the other half-dozen for something perhaps even more important for the city. The second group were to enter the ghetto, not to aid the baron’s soldiers but to look for any sign of the plague doktors, and to capture one if at all possible. If what he suspected about them was correct, what he asked of the second group might prove no less dangerous than the vampire hunt.
One last task had been saved for himself. The bottle Streng found would have to be examined. Thulmann had a grim premonition that he already knew what he would learn from it.
Within the confines of his study, Witch Hunter Captain Meisser sat and brooded. His authority had been usurped, as good as stripped from him. He’d been a fool to think he’d be able to use someone like Thulmann. He’d seen his kind before, self-righteous lunatics so certain in their own beliefs that they hurl aside all worldly concerns. What did such men know of the balance of power? What did they understand of the constant struggle to maintain the authority of the Temple in the face of secular greed and manipulation?
Apostates and fanatics. The late lord protector had seen his worth, known the value of his appreciation for politics. Of course, there were ugly rumours circulating about Lord Gamow now, rumours of heresy and worse. The witch hunter rose from his seat and nervously poured himself a glass of wine. He almost jumped out of his skin when he turned around and saw a messenger boy standing in the doorway.
&nb
sp; ‘How did you get in here?’ Meisser demanded.
‘The man in the red shirt was giving orders to everybody,’ the boy explained. ‘Nobody paid any attention to me.’ He stepped toward Meisser, extending the letter he carried. The captain took it cautiously, as though it were a live serpent rather than a sheet of parchment. The wax seal upon the letter stared back at him.
Meisser broke the seal and hastily read the letter’s contents. A smile spread its way across his features as he quickly finished the last of his wine. A summons. From Baron von Gotz himself. Requested by name, in fact.
‘Play your games, Thulmann,’ Meisser thought. ‘You will find I’m much better at them than you are.’
‘We can’t let the vermin live.’ The murderous words were spoken in the softest whisper, yet sounded loud as thunder in Gregor’s ears. His hearing had been improving, to such a degree that every moment was a tiny piece of suffering, like a hot knife stabbed into his brain. He could hear everything. The rustle of grass as he stepped upon it, the click of termite legs as they burrowed through the walls. He could hear the steady pulse of the men’s hearts. He could hear the blood as it pounded through their veins.
They were smugglers, these men. Gregor had found the city of Wurtbad under quarantine, surrounded by a ring of soldiers with orders to let no one in and no one out. But the eyes of mortal men are weak in the night. Gregor’s eyes were no longer those of a man. He had seen the bright red glow of the warmth exuded by the smugglers as they prepared to break the cordon. They were skilled villains, old hands at deceiving the servants of the law and the elector count, and this was not their first excursion into the forbidden city. But Gregor was something less than a man now. He had become a very part of the darkness itself, in a way even the blackest outlaw would never be. He’d confronted them as they prepared to scuttle along the old drainage ditch that would conceal them for the first leg of their journey.
Skorzeney, the half-Kislevite who led the small group had been alarmed, naturally, but shrewd enough to know that a fight was the last thing he could afford. The soldiers of the elector count were everywhere and the sound of conflict would be sure to bring them running. He had smiled, a cunning, faithless smile, and agreed to Gregor’s compromise, his demand to be taken into the city. Shrewd to the last, Skorzeney had handed Gregor some of the grain sacks he and his men were smuggling into Wurtbad. The ditch would not conceal horses or mules, the only goods the smugglers could carry was what they themselves bore. Skorzeney was happy to put his unexpected and unwanted visitor to work.
Gregor had expected the men to turn on him. In truth, they could do nothing less. The money he had promised to pay them was a lie, and the peasant rags he wore betrayed that fact. But more importantly, Gregor would now know the smuggler’s secret route into the city. He could betray it to the authorities. Worse still, he could go into the smuggling business for himself. Skorzeney had the look of a killer about him. Perhaps he would decide to murder Gregor even without good reason.
Gregor stood in the shadow of the old tannery the smugglers had converted into a storehouse. He had to acknowledge that the men knew their business – crawling along ditches and culverts, a sack of grain lashed to each man’s back, until they reached a small storm drain set in Wurtbad’s outer wall, a metal grill far less sound than it appeared. The tannery stood only a few blocks from the wall, the tall tower of the horse trader’s guild obscuring all view of the tannery from the nearest gatehouse.
‘A quick stab, just under the ribs,’ Skorzeney was telling one of his subordinates. ‘Something a bit extra for the butcher. Won’t be too long before even long pig becomes a delicacy around here.’
The other smuggler laughed nervously, then turned, regarding the spot where Gregor leaned against the wall. He approached the stranger, trying to maintain an air of casual ease.
‘Come along, old beggar,’ the smuggler said. ‘You can help me sort the goods we just brought in. Get it ready for distribution. Boss says that’s part of the deal too.’
He was a man who had killed before with no taint of remorse or regret. The same look of casual indifference was on his face now. But Gregor could hear the quickening of his pulse, the soft slither of steel against leather as he drew his dagger from its sheath. Before the smuggler could even blink, Gregor’s cold hand grabbed his, twisting it upward and snapping his wrist. The smuggler fell, screaming in agony and horror, scurrying away from him.
‘You’ll not find me so easy to murder,’ Gregor stated in an almost aloof tone. He still leaned against the wall. Except for the broken, screaming thief crawling away from him, he might never have moved at all. The half-dozen other smugglers drew swords, but their show of force was half-hearted. Skorzeney took a step forward. Gregor could see the thoughts behind the man’s cold, vicious eyes. If he let Gregor go, his gang would break apart, his men no longer respecting and fearing their leader. Fear was pounding in his veins, just as it was in those of his men, but he could not allow it to rule him.
‘A fair trick,’ Skorzeney conceded. ‘A little elf in you, perhaps?’ He feigned a thoughtful look, then spoke once more. ‘I was rash in my decision. You’re more than you appear, friend. I might be able to use a man like you.’
Gregor stepped away from the wall. ‘No, friend, I’ve business in this city that presses upon me. Step aside and pray our paths cross no more.’ Indecision flickered on Skorzeney’s face, then passed as he noted his adversary’s unarmed state.
‘I can’t allow that. You’ve seen too much,’ Skorzeney said. ‘And I don’t think you’ll be able to repeat that little trick against a proper sword.’
There was no further warning. The smuggler sprang forward, slashing at Gregor’s belly. Too fast for the eye to see, Gregor dodged aside, the smuggler’s sword cutting only through air. Disbelieving, Skorzeney attacked again, chopping at Gregor’s neck. This time, his enemy did not leap aside. Cold hands caught the flashing blade in a grip of steel. Skorzeney’s eyes were wide with horror as he heard his sword snap under the pressure of Gregor’s unnatural strength. The look was frozen on his features as Gregor drove the broken tip of the blade into Skorzeney’s throat.
He staggered away as Skorzeney fell. Stared at his hands in shock, horrified by the inhuman power they held. He’d seen only one creature with such strength, the power to break steel with its bare hands. How much longer, Gregor wondered, before he became what Sibbechai was? He looked back on the man he had killed, as the bright, glowing crimson drained from his body, beckoning to him with its promise of warmth and life.
The young man fell upon his hands and knees beside the body, his face inching toward the filthy floor of the alley. Gregor stopped himself, self-disgust and revulsion beating down the obscene compulsion. Like a human crab, Gregor scurried backwards from the expanding pool of blood. He looked into the dying face of Skorzeney and groaned in horror. As life fled the body it was becoming more distinct, clearer to Gregor’s twisted sight. It was as if a veil had been pulled away, exposing that which lay beneath. The body became more real to Gregor in death than it had been in life.
The other smugglers had fled into the night as soon as their leader had fallen. Yet even as they hurried through blackened streets and dark alleyways, they could hear the long, anguished, inhuman howl from outside the tannery. It was the cry of the lost and the damned.
The sun had barely disappeared beneath the horizon when a chill imposed itself on the small cellar. A coldness that had nothing to do with the onset of night. A shadow rose from the heavy wooden casket. Another shadow greeted it, detaching itself from the gloom gathered about the walls.
‘Good evening, mighty necrarch lord,’ the sardonic voice of the necromancer broke the silence of the improvised crypt. ‘I trust this night shall be more productive than last.’
Sibbechai’s burning gaze fell upon Carandini. It had had enough of this conniving little mortal, and his usefulness was at an end. The vampire would find some less truculent wretch to serve it now. Shri
velled flesh fell away from its grotesque fangs as the vampire snarled at its deceitful ally.
‘I grow weary of your baiting, little man,’ Sibbechai growled. Its fingers cracked as it spread its hand into a claw. But almost at once, it relented, folding its arms back around its body. The necromancer was baiting it because he believed he had the upper hand. It might be dangerous to kill Carandini before learning why.
‘You failed to secure the book,’ the necromancer stated. ‘And you let that witch hunter live. Not what I expected when I proposed this alliance of ours.’
‘I will deal with the witch hunter in my own time,’ Sibbechai hissed. ‘Twice he has dared to interfere. Every breath he takes now is borrowed from Morr.’ The vampire snapped its fangs, as though crushing its enemy’s throat between its jaws. Sibbechai turned its eyes again upon Carandini. ‘The book shall be mine again. I know where it has been taken. And by whom.’ The vampire suddenly smiled. There had been a faint smell in the cellar, a subtle taint to the air. Sibbechai had been trying to remember where it had smelled it before. Now it knew – it was the strange ink Carandini used when consulting the mummy claw he carried. Sibbechai could readily guess what the necromancer had asked of the oracular talisman. ‘But this is already known to you.’
Carandini nodded his head. ‘Castle von Gotz,’ he said with a note of pride. ‘Taken there by a wizard named Furchtegott.’
‘The wizard will not stand in my way,’ Sibbechai snarled, moving toward the cellar’s trapdoor. Suddenly it turned – springing on Carandini before the necromancer could react, pouncing on him like a wolf upon an unsuspecting lamb. Sibbechai could read the minds of most mortals, plucking their thoughts from thin air if it concentrated hard. But Carandini was too well versed in the black arts, his mind guarded from the vampire’s intrusion. Yet such protection was not complete. Sibbechai could still sense the emotions oozing from the necromancer’s grimy soul. And as the vampire gave voice to its intention to kill the wizard, an intense joy gripped Carandini.
