[Mathias Thulmann 01] - Witch Hunter

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  WITCH HUNTER

  Mathias Thulmann - 01

  C.L. Werner

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons

  and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the

  world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury

  it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds

  and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the

  largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known

  for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is

  a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests

  and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns

  the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendent of the

  founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder

  of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the

  length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly

  palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north,

  come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge

  Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault.

  Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of

  the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the

  skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the

  land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the

  ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen

  corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

  As the time of battle draws ever near.

  the Empire needs heroes

  like never before.

  PROLOGUE

  Dark thunderheads rolled across the sky, drowning out the light cast by moon and star, their brooding grey substance taking on the hue of blood where the last feeble rays of a dying sun struck them. Beneath the clouds sprawled a landscape no less sinister and menacing, no less redolent of dark powers and the malevolence of the night. Once, the sprawl of wrack and ruin had been a city, the jewel of Ostermark, a place of such wealth and power as to rival even the great cities of Altdorf and Marienburg, eclipsing even the majesty of the mighty river which flowed beneath its gates and past its streets. But such glories were now a part of its past, destined to never return.

  The vibrant cityscape had been crushed and broken, naked beams blackened by fire clawed at the dark sky like lost souls reaching up from the pits of Khaine’s hells.

  The once teeming streets were now deserted and desolate, choked with rubble and debris and the sorry remains of the unburied dead. Marble fountains spat foul black water into weed-choked basins, stained glass windows stared at muck-ridden lanes from the sagging plaster walls in which they had been set. Everywhere the last remnants of the city’s opulence fought a losing war against the decay that crawled from the hungry earth to consume what the night of doom had left behind.

  A foul, clammy mist rose from the stagnant waters of the River Stir, crawling down the streets and alleys of the destroyed city, carrying with it the promise of cough, fever and plague. Like everything else around the city, even the mighty Stir had become tainted by the evil of this blighted place, its waters so choked with rubble from collapsed buildings and piers that the flow was almost completely stopped and the once clean waters were now as foul and stagnant as a toad pond.

  A bloated black rat the size of a terrier crept from a crack in the only remaining wall of what had once been a resplendent merchant’s residence, now was little more than a heap of blackened wood and crumbling plaster.

  The whiskers on the rat’s mud-spattered face twitched for a moment as the animal tried to separate the multitude of stenches that washed over it, lashing its naked tail as it sniffed out its surrounds. A carrion stench aroused its interest and the oversized rodent scrabbled across the mound of brick and timber, beady red eyes gleaming with hungry anticipation.

  Not far from the collapsed debris of the high class home, another pile of wreckage groped at the night sky with talons of masonry and wood. What these ruins had been, none could now say, but they must have belonged to some tall and vast building, as the sprawl of the rubble gave silent testimony. From the height of the mound, a man might be able to see far out across the ruins, or, if some spark of wisdom guided his sight, the broken walls that demarked the limits of what had been a city, signposts to guide the lost back to the sane world beyond the desolation.

  A much closer signpost had been placed upon the highest swell of the rubble. A great iron spike, some twelve feet high, perhaps once the support for the bed of a wagon or the hull of a boat, rose from the debris, pointing upwards like an accusing finger. Upon it had been lashed an old carriage wheel, the rich colours of its paint flaking away in the ill air that filled the city.

  Lashed to the wheel was a bundle of sorry and ragged remains, the faded debris of a soldier’s livery clinging to his pallid bones. Who he had been or what he had done to deserve such a fate, none could say, nor even if he had been alive or dead before earning his seat high above the rubble. The skeleton had long ago been picked clean by crows and ravens, and even the last scraps of meat had been stripped away by the inch-long ants that now infested great sections of the ruins. A scrap of parchment bearing the last vestiges of a wax seal was the only sign of who the unfortunate victim might have been or what he might have done. The grimy rain had faded away whatever account of his misdeeds had once been recorded there and the wind had torn away nearly all that the rain had spared, leaving the skeleton to endure its ignominious end in anonymity.

  The bloated rat leapt across the uneven rubble, hopping from one mass of stone to the next, and scrabbled up the base of the iron pole, its curled claws finding an easy purchase on the corroded metal. The rodent perched on the crude wooden sign that some passerby in a moment of morbid humour had affixed to the forgotten gibbet. In dark charcoal letters that rain and fog had yet to devour, the jokester’s hand had scrawled: “Welcome to Mordheim”.

  The vermin paid no heed to the bony remains hanging above its head; that meal had been finished long ago. The rat was more interested in the new smell its keen senses had detected, the stench of rotting meat and old blood.

  The rat lingered for a moment upon its perch, then leapt back to the ground, scrabbling down the heap of stones then scuttling away down one of the narrow dingy streets. There was a frantic haste to its gait, for this was Mordheim, and even rats knew better than to tempt the Dark Gods by tarrying too long in the open upon the forsaken streets.

  Sounds of conflict arose from a square several score yards from where the ghastly welcome sign had been set. Once, perhaps, this had been a place where the good and great of the city might have gathered to compare fashions and gossip, to idle away the day watching ships sailing upon the river. But such frivolity had no place in Mordheim now. The square, like everything else in the city, had been consumed by decay. For every building that leaned sickly against its neighbour to lend it support, three had crumbled, as though some giant hand had pressed upon them from above and pushed them flat.

  The square was some forty yards on a side, and within its entire expanse could be found not an inch that had not become tainted and ruined. The small garden that had been lovingly tended in the centre of the square was now choked with weeds, the trunk of the old oak tree that had shaded the flowerbeds warped and twisted. Malevolent faces seemed to stare from the mottled, sickly wood, and though the eager carrion crows gathered in the broken gable roofs that yet faced the square, the de
siccated branches of the tree were absent of their croaking black shapes.

  The paving stones were cracked and chipped, sickly yellow weeds stabbing upward from beneath them.

  The rat crinkled its nose as it sniffed the crimson stain leading into the square, its slimy pink tongue licking at the salty fluid. The greedy vermin sniffed at the air once more, trying to decide if it was too early or too late to follow the trail to a meal. The sound of steel clashing upon steel told the vermin it was still too soon, and with an almost dejected manner, the creature crept back into the sanctity of the rubble-choked gutter.

  With a groan, the warrior staggered back, his gloved hand clutching at the crimson seeping from his belly. The soldier looked in disgust at the thing that had dealt him his wound, the crimson gleaming from its dark, rust-pitted blade. His enemy did not seem to notice in the slightest that it had harmed its opponent. That the man yet lived seemed to be its only observation, indeed, if the two pasty orbs that stared emptily from the mouldering ruin of its face were capable of observing anything.

  The undead thing took a shambling step towards the soldier, its decayed arm raising its rusted sword once more.

  The warrior gritted his teeth against the pain surging from the cut this grave-cheating horror had inflicted upon him, struggling to lift his shield to intercept the zombie’s attack. The weight of the shield seemed to have increased and he realised that slow as the zombie’s thrust was, his own reactions were slower still. Once again, the rusty sword sank into the soldier’s belly. A surge of pain flashed through the man’s body like a bolt of fire.

  With a savage cry, the soldier swung his hammer around, the heavy steel smashing against the zombie’s withered skull.

  The undead thing uttered no sound as its brittle bones were crushed and the maggot-infested mire of morbid fluid and greasy pulp that had been its brain was splashed across the grimy cobblestones. Rather, with a quiet acceptance, it crumpled to the ground, as if welcoming this second chance to quit the troublesome world of the living and return to the silent gardens of Morr.

  The warrior watched his twice-slain foe crumple, then fell himself upon the debris-ridden ground.

  The soldier stared up into the darkening sky, watching as the last feeble rays of the sun turned the ominous clouds as crimson as the fluid leaking from his body.

  For a moment, he fancied that it was not the sun that had so transformed the black thunderheads, but the greedy storm gods, sopping up all the blood spilt this day across the foul streets of accursed Mordheim. The warrior clenched his eyes as if to make the image disappear. So close to death, grim storm gods were not the best things to dwell on.

  The duel between the soldier and his undead foe over, all sounds of conflict had ended. The ambush had been swift and sudden, felling man and undead thing alike with great speed.

  There had been twenty in the soldier’s warband, and the pack of rotten creatures that had attacked them had numbered at least as many. Now, the warrior could hear distinctly the moans of wounded comrades and the hideous croaking of crows.

  The carrion eaters had grown bold beyond measure in the wretched environs of Mordheim, and did not bother to wait for a body to become still before setting upon it with their cruel beaks and sharp claws. Nor did they retreat any great distance when their mangled meals summoned up the strength to swat at them with maimed arms and bleeding stumps, hopping away only far enough that they might savour the wretched efforts with some assurance of impunity. The birds would then return to their loathsome repast, and no cry of wrath or pain or mercy would cause them to cease their labours.

  The soldier clutched at his wound again, this time not to quench the flow of blood, but to encourage it. With the horrible scavengers cawing and croaking all around him, death could not claim him too soon.

  The sounds of the crows grew agitated suddenly, and into the soldier’s dimming senses came the sound of boots rasping across the unclean cobblestones. The warrior tried to turn his head, to see who was walking towards him, but found the effort beyond him. It did not matter. Whether friend or foe, there was little more that could be done to the veteran swordsman now.

  “So,” a cold voice spoke from somewhere near. “This is how it ends.” The voice was hard and imperious, a slight lisp twisting every consonant into a sneer. It was a voice the soldier had heard before, a voice he knew well.

  Though he could not see who was addressing him, the soldier knew who it was. Somehow, it did not surprise him. If anyone could have emerged from the horrible ambush alive and unscathed, that man would have been Witch Hunter Captain Helmuth Klausner.

  The boots rasped upon the cobbles once more. Into the warrior’s fading vision came a pale face with a square jaw and sunken eyes, nose and chin both cast in such a manner as to make the visage of a devil seem kindly.

  Helmuth Klausner leaned down, his gloved hand touching the hole in the man’s belly. The soldier grimaced in pain, amazed that such a sensation could still intrude upon the darkness obscuring his other senses. The witch hunter gazed indifferently at the bloody bile coating the fingers of his glove and wiped his hand upon the soldier’s tunic.

  “All these weeks, all these weeks of cat and mouse, lurking within these unhallowed ruins, and finally it comes to an end.” Helmuth’s tone was almost regretful. “All these long weeks, stalking and hunting, not knowing for certain who was hunter and who was prey. And now,” the witch hunter allowed himself a slight chuckle, “now it comes to this.” He stared back down at the soldier, and this time even the mask of indifference had fallen away from the wrathful malevolence that blazed behind the witch hunter’s eyes. “Where is he, Otto?” Helmuth demanded, his words so short and rapid that even their normal lisp was clipped. “You have seen him! He was here!”

  Otto stared up into the gruesome countenance of Helmuth Klausner. Once, that face had cowed him, had broken his will with terror and fear. But no longer. He was beyond even the reach of Helmuth Klausner now. The one the witch hunter hunted would see to that. A slight laugh bubbled its way from the dying soldier’s throat.

  “Damn y-you…” Otto gasped. “D-damn your… black soul… H-helmuth. May…may t-the Dark Gods… may they k-know you for… for one of their own!”

  Helmuth Klausner glared at the dying man as he cursed the witch hunter. A cruel smile split the Templar’s harsh features. Swift as a striking serpent he stabbed the soldier deep in his chest with the long silver dagger that he was carrying.

  Otto gave voice to a gurgled rattle as life fled him. “I’ll not be seeing them for some time,” Klausner sneered down at the corpse. “Not until my work is done. You might tell them that when you see them.”

  The witch hunter rose from the carcass, his eyes surveying the carnage around him. The ambush had been a costly affair, but he had lost nothing that he could not replace. Swords were more plentiful than grain in the vicinity of Mordheim and hands to wield them cheaper still. His prey might have escaped him this day, but it would not elude him forever. Sooner or later, the light of Sigmar would find the creature he sought, no matter how deep and dark the burrow into which it crept.

  Helmuth suddenly became aware of a perceptible chill, a fell odour upon the air. It was a stench of corruption rather than decay or death, the stink of evil, twisted and inhuman.

  The crows rose from their loathsome meals, cawing in fright as they retreated into the shadowy garrets of the tumbledown guildhalls. Slowly, the witch hunter turned to face the source of the taint.

  It stood within the shadows cast by that great malformed oak, a tall figure clothed in black. The vestment of the creature was ragged and frayed, the once elegant material torn and dirtied, hanging loosely about a figure grown too lean to properly fill it. Thin, pallid hands hung from the sleeves of its robe, the once elegant cuffs shorn away. A large gold ring dominated the finger of one of its hands, held against the shrivelled digit by a crude iron nail, a spike driven through both jewellery and the fingerbone beneath.

  Helmut
h smiled as he saw the ring, any question as to the identity of his adversary banished at last.

  “You,” the shadowy apparition spoke, the sound less like speech and more like the creaking of wood under the attention of a midnight wind, “and I. Things have ended much as they began, so many years ago.”

  The figure strode forward, the pale, sunken face revealed in the fading twilight. The flesh was beginning to flake and peel, blotches of black necrotic skin marring the dead pallor. Great incisors, like the fangs of a rat, pushed apart the shadow’s face, spreading apart the bloodless white lips. The only colour in the face was contained in the two fiery eyes that gleamed from the sunken pits that flanked its decaying nose. The eyes stared with a lifetime of hate and fury upon the figure of Helmuth Klausner, burning with a perfection of hatred that no human soul could ever hope to achieve without collapsing under the very strain of containing such malice.

  Helmuth Klausner nodded his head slightly at the monster, drawing the sword sheathed at his side. “Indeed, Sigmar could not allow such a thing as you to profane this world with your puerile mockery of life,” the witch hunter spoke, his tones cold with the extremes of his own fury. “It is by his grace that I am the one appointed the task of restoring you to the grave you have denied so long.”

  The monster stepped toward Helmuth, its pace so fluid that it seemed to glide across the cobbles. “If there are any gods of justice and vengeance, then it is they who have guided my steps. I will have what is mine, I will have restored to me all that you have taken.” The creature’s voice was terrible in its subtle violence, its undercurrents of ire and wrath.

  “We have talked enough this night, blood-leech. The hour grows late and I have little time to waste trifling with a corpse.” Helmuth Klausner advanced toward the shadowy figure, his sword held before and across his body. The shadow drew its own blade, gliding forward to meet its foe. The dull, subdued tones of an incantation slithered into the quickening night. As they did so, the corpse of Otto began to twitch with an unnatural life…