[Mathias Thulmann 01] - Witch Hunter

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

  Thus did Witch Hunter Captain Helmuth Klausner, Knight Templar of Sigmar, Protector of the Faith, drive to final and perpetual ruin the thrice-accursed vampire Sibbechai in those dark and fearsome times. Upon the streets of foul benighted Mordheim did he bring the wrath and judgment of Most Holy Sigmar down upon the foul undead abomination. Or so say the histories written of those distant days…

  CHAPTER ONE

  The shrieks of the old hag echoed within the vast courtyard outside the massive grey-stone fortress at the heart of Wurtbad long after smoke ceased to rise from the pyre. The assemblage of officials and lower nobility who had emerged from the fortress to observe the ghoulish spectacle began to file back through the gaping gateway. The massed crowd of commoners lingered on, watching with rapt attention every curl of smoke that rose from the smouldering remains. It had been they who had felt threatened by the gruesome predations of the crone’s monstrosity, and it was with a mixture of relief and satisfaction that they had watched the hag bum.

  Burning was an ugly, terrible death and Chanta Favna had been a long time in the dying. Mathias Thulmann had not departed with the rest of the officials, but had stood before the blackened scaffold to the last, lingering until the merest wisp of smoke was no more, his leather gauntlet resting loosely upon the hilt of his sword, his black cape snapping about him in the fiery breeze wafting from the conflagration. The witch hunter had witnessed many such scenes and always they sickened him. A more wretched and loathsome end he could not easily imagine, unless it was to wallow in the depths of villainy and perversion to which such creatures willingly committed themselves.

  Yes, the end of a witch was an ugly thing, but ugliness was necessary, a vital part of the grand theatre that was at the very of such executions. There was no question of justice when it came to such things, for whatever evil witches and warlocks had perpetuated was beyond the reach of that within the world of men; there would be a higher authority who would exact retribution upon them. No, the execution of a witch had little enough of punishment to it, a measure of revenge, perhaps, for what that might achieve.

  The true purpose of these gruesome displays was for the benefit of those who observed them. The execution of a witch was a cautionary tale brought to life, a terrible parable to evoke horror and repugnance, to make the mind of the commoner shudder and cringe. There were two ways to rule the hearts and minds of men. The noblest of souls could be swayed by love and devotion, but for the rest, for the vast petty masses of humanity, fear was the only thing that could cow them. And fear was a witch hunter’s merchandise in trade.

  Thulmann studied the crowd of city-dwellers, who were only now beginning to make their way from the courtyard. He watched them depart, fixing upon faces white with horror or glowing with satisfaction. The crowds were always the same, numbering amongst them the appalled and the self-righteous. The witch hunter grimaced as he considered the men and women, the nameless faces of the mob.

  Mathias Thulmann strode away from the vast heap of ash and charred timber. The priests of Morr were waiting, spades stabbed into the ground beside them, waiting to conduct the ashes to the unhallowed spot outside the gardens of the dead reserved for sorcerers and heretics. No marker graced the grave of a witch, no mourner wept at the passing of such a creature. A miserable end to a miserable life.

  The stocky figure of Streng detached itself from the wall of a cooper’s shop facing the square, a partly drained flagon of ale in his grimy fingers. The bearded mercenary took another sip of his devil’s brew, then smiled at his employer.

  “She took a long time, eh Mathias? I wouldn’t have thought the old bird had that much squawk left in her.” Streng gave vent to a short snort of brutal amusement. “Not after I got through with her at any rate.”

  Thulmann strode past his henchman. “Your skill at wresting the truth from sealed lips is quite notable, Streng, and of great value to me. But for all of that, I find it no less distasteful.” The witch hunter continued on his way, not waiting to see if the thug would follow after him, stalking through the narrow streets of Wurtbad like some grim apparition.

  “Keeps you from getting your hands dirty doesn’t it, sir,” the torturer observed, his tone indignant.

  “So do the labours of a dung gatherer, yet I hold him in no great regard either.” The witch hunter paused, observing that his path had brought him to the inn where they had lodgings. He reached into the inner pocket of his scarlet tunic, removing a small pouch. Without looking back, he tossed the object to Streng. The pouch landed in the street to the sound of jangling silver. The mercenary reached into the gutter and retrieved his payment.

  “Don’t think your hands are any cleaner,” Streng told his employer as he counted out the coins into his hand. “I may break them for you, but you are the one who does the catching. There is just as much blood on your hands as there is on mine.” A wicked leer spread across the ruffian’s face. “I reckon we’re more alike than you’d willing to admit.”

  Thulmann turned back from the doorway of the inn. “There is a difference between what you do and what I do, Streng. I do what I do in the service of Lord Sigmar. You do what you do for coin and the base pleasures it can buy you.”

  The hireling bristled under the venomous comment.

  “If you’ll not be needing me further, sir, I’ll be retiring to pursue some of those ‘base pleasures’, as you call them.”

  “See that you are sober enough to be of some measure of use in the morning,” warned the witch hunter as his henchman retreated along the street.

  Without waiting for further comment from the torturer, Mathias Thulmann stalked into the Seven Candles.

  The Seven Candles was one of Wurtbad’s finest inns, its cellars and pantry among the very best the city had to offer. Its rooms were spacious, its bedding clean, its serving wenches pretty and amiable. Yet despite these qualities, the common room was all but deserted, only a pair of subdued soldiers sitting at the benches, casting sidelong glances at the sinister witch hunter. Thulmann did not meet their furtive gaze, knowing well the mixture of guilt and fear he would find in their eyes. He had seen such looks before. Every man, if he was honest with himself, felt deep in his heart that he had failed his god in some way. Perhaps he did not attend services as often as he should, perhaps he did not pray as often as he might. Had he neglected to tithe a portion of his silver to the temple, or maybe spoken an impious thought? Sigmar was a loving god, but also a stern one. Would he readily forgive such indiscretions? A witch hunter was a living, breathing reminder that one day all failings would be judged, and perhaps sooner rather than later.

  It was that guilty unease which the witch hunter’s presence evoked that had depopulated the Seven Candles. As the portly owner of the inn scrambled from behind his counter to fawningly inquire as to Thulmann’s needs, the witch hunter knew the question that was foremost in the innkeeper’s mind, the one question which the little man would never be able to nerve himself enough to ask. And when will you be leaving so that my custom will return?

  “Wine and some roast pheasant, if you please innkeeper,” Thulmann addressed the proprietor as the man nervously strode towards him. “I will sup in my rooms this evening.” The witch hunter cast an imperious gaze across the all but vacant common room. “The atmosphere here is rather cheerless tonight.”

  The innkeeper bobbed his head in acknowledgement of the witch hunter’s demands and hurriedly retreated back into the kitchen to hasten his cook about preparing the templar’s meal. Thulmann left the man to his labours and ascended the wide staircase that rose to the private bedrooms above.

  Mathias Thulmann, as usual for him, had taken the finest room in the Seven Candles, relocating the previous occupant to the local magistrate’s dungeon on suspicion of being a mutant. He’d have the arrogant wine merchant released upon his departure from Wurtbad, certain that the man would be a much better Sigmarite for his harrowing, and humbling, experience. It was part and parcel of Thulmann’s philosophy that as repr
esentatives of Sigmar’s continuing sovereignty over the lives and souls of the people of the Empire that witch hunters were due every courtesy and consideration. It was a reminder to every man that to be a good Sigmarite, sacrifices needed to be made, even if only such sacrifices as might be extracted from a money belt. Besides, it was well to illustrate to the common man that by devoting themselves completely and fully to Sigmar they would be rewarded, not simply in the next world, but in this one as well. The respect of even the most noble could be any man’s if he but had the courage, determination and devotion to prevail.

  The witch hunter smiled to himself as he opened the door to his room and sank into the upholstered chair that faced out upon the chamber’s view of the clustered rooftops of Wurtbad. After all, one who fought daemons and all the other misshapen abominations that lurked in the black corners of the Empire deserved a few comforts. A comfortable bed, generous provisions and a decent bottle of wine were not really so much to ask of those whose souls it was his sworn duty to protect from the things that would prey upon them.

  And yet, no man was infallible. Thulmann considered again the screams of the wretched Chanta Favna as the ancient hag had been greedily consumed by the flames of her pyre. He had nothing but contempt for creatures such as the old witch, they were beneath pity or regret. Exterminating such practitioners of foul and proscribed sorceries was a just and proper thing, a sacred obligation necessary to ensure the continued security of the Empire. But it was not witches and necromancers alone which Thulmann had consigned to the flames. There had been many others, those who did deserve some pity, those who were not unworthy of some measure of sympathy. The evil he fought against was like a malignant plague, striking indiscriminately. The mark of Chaos did not restrict itself to those who invited it into their souls. It could infest even the most innocent, twisting first their bodies then their minds, slowly and insidiously sapping their strength until at last it did corrupt them completely.

  Suddenly the source for his ill humour and harsh words to his henchman rose to the forefront of his mind. After the execution, his gaze had lingered upon a face in the crowd that had gathered to watch the destruction of the witch. It had been the face of a woman, soft and comely, filled with fascination and revulsion as she watched the flames consume the murderous crone. But the spectator’s face had been more to Mathias Thulmann than a remarkable countenance amidst the crowd, for it had recalled the face of another woman. It had been a window into the past, an unwelcome reminder of another pyre which the witch hunter had lit over a year ago.

  Mathias Thulmann could remember every moment of that incident. The report of a taint in the noble house of Von Lichtberg, the swift investigation set into motion upon his arrival, the brutal attentions of Streng as he put the chief suspects to the question. The girl had been the source of that taint, her body infested with a seed of Chaos, a mutant thing that could not be born into a sane world, and a womb that could never be allowed to produce another. She had been innocent of any profane sorceries or heathen witchcraft, innocent of all those twisted deeds and malevolent desires that made it so very easy to perform his duties. No, her only fault had been to heed the advice of a crackpot physician and to love the son of a nobleman. And for that, she had been tortured and finally destroyed.

  The witch hunter rose from his chair, the unpleasant memories coming more rapidly now. He’d shown leniency toward the poor girl’s lover, the young Baronet Reinhardt von Lichtberg. Knowing him to be free of any taint, he’d ordered the boy to be released. It was a decision that continued to haunt him. He should have had the boy destroyed as well, for he had seen the rage and bloodlust in those young eyes. Indeed, Reinhardt von Lichtberg had pursued the witch hunter across half the province of Stirland, catching up with him in the small village of Kleinsdorf. Their meeting had been a violent one, but again the witch hunter had been lenient, leaving the vengeful youth wounded, but alive, following their encounter. It was a foolish thing to have done. He should have had the boy destroyed for seeking to harm an officer of the Temple. But somehow Thulmann could not bring himself to regret his unwise mercy. Somehow, the knowledge that Reinhardt von Lichtberg was out there somewhere, alive, even if thirsting for the witch hunter’s blood, lessened to some degree the lingering sense of guilt Thulmann felt for the regrettable execution of the girl.

  There was only one thing that would fully assuage that guilt. For long months now Thulmann had been on the trail of the man responsible for the girl’s corruption, the old family physician of the von Lichtbergs, a villain named Freiherr Weichs. Herr Doktor Freiherr Weichs had talked the poor girl into taking a vile concoction of his own devising that he swore to her would dissipate the unborn and unwanted life growing within her belly. But that elixir had been poison, containing the foul substance known as warpstone. Far from destroying the unborn life, it had changed it, and with it the woman herself, polluting her blood with the black filth of mutation and Chaos. Thulmann had sworn an oath to hunt down the physician as he watched the flames devour the girl, and had spent the better part of a year doing just that. Even as Reinhardt von Lichtberg stalked him, so did he stalk the true source of the boy’s misery. That trail had led him across three provinces, but at last the witch hunter felt he was drawing near to his quarry.

  Mathias Thulmann stared out the window, gazing once more across the rooftops of Wurtbad. Somewhere amidst the bustle and confusion of the city, he would find Doktor Freiherr Weichs. And when he did, he would pile the Doktor’s pyre so high they would see the fire even in Altdorf. The incident with Chanta Favna had been a necessary delay in his hunt, but now there would be no further distractions. The man who had hired the witch was in custody and would join her as soon as Meisser finished going through the motions of a trail. The man had thought to control the river trade in Wurtbad through his scheme, now he was going to discover that he’d lost not simply his wealth and position, but his life and very soul by contemplating it.

  It did not matter to Thulmann, in the end, that Meisser would take most of the credit for putting an end to the witch and her murderous creation, for unmasking the villain who had made her witchcraft a part of his plotting. That the horror had been brought to an end, that the guilty would meet justice was all that mattered to him. After all, that was all that would matter to Most Holy Sigmar.

  Mathias Thulmann looked up from his meal as he heard the soft, subdued sound of knocking at his door. The interruption put the templar in an even blacker mood and it was with an imperious tone that he commanded the supplicant to enter and state his business. The door swung inward and the portly innkeeper darted his head into the room.

  “Forgive me, sir, but there is a man here to see you.”

  “He can wait until I have finished this mediocre dinner you have seen fit to try and poison me with,” Thulmann snapped back. The innkeeper grew slightly more pale as Thulmann made his displeasure known, horrified that the meal had not been to the witch hunter’s liking. Thulmann was certain that their conversation had ended and returned to attacking his plate. When he looked up again, he was surprised to see the man still standing at the door.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think your visitor is the kind to be kept waiting.” The innkeeper cringed as he saw Thulmann raise a questioning eyebrow.

  “You’ve intrigued me,” the witch hunter stated matter-of-factly He lifted a napkin to his face and wiped away the residue from his unfinished meal. “I wonder what sort of man you seem to think is so important that he should take a templar knight of Sigmar away from his humble victuals’

  “He’s downstairs,” the heavy-set man stammered. “Says his name is Lord Sforza Zerndorff.” The innkeeper made the sign of the hammer as he spoke the name. “Says he’s from Altdorf. Says he’s a witch hunter like yourself.”

  Sforza Zerndorff was seated upon one of the benches that rested against either side of the common room’s three massive tables. Except for him, there were only two others in the room. But these were no simp
le off duty watchmen. These were soldiers of a different cast, their liveries black as pitch, massive swords sheathed at their sides, huge pectorals depicting the twin-tailed comet of Sigmar hanging from huge silver chains upon their breasts.

  Zerndorff himself was much smaller than his bodyguards, stocky and full in his figure where the two guards were lean and powerful. However, there was no mistaking the strength and authority of the smaller man, his piercing blue eyes considering his surroundings with a haughty air of disdain. Zerndorff idly tapped the polished top of the table with the tip of a small black-hilted dagger as Thulmann strode into the hall.

  “Ah, Thulmann,” the dignitary said, his voice conveying irritation. “I was beginning to think you’d perhaps gone to Altdorf to look for me. Or perhaps my messenger did not deliver my summons promptly?” Zerndorff sent a look of displeasure at the innkeeper who swiftly scuttled away into the kitchens.

  “Forgive my delay, Lord Zerndorff,” Thulmann said to the seated dignitary. Zerndorff motioned for the other witch hunter to join him, deciding to ignore the lack of contrition in the manner with which Thulmann voiced his apology.

  “I have little time to waste Thulmann,” Zerndorff said, “so I will cut to the chase. I have need of someone I can trust. As you know, with the rather ugly business that has come forward in the aftermath of Lord Thaddeus Gamow’s death, the entire hierarchy of our order has been restructured. There is no longer a position of Lord Protector of the Faith, instead the Grand Theogonist has appointed three Witch Hunter Generals to share authority over the order.” Zerndorff paused, favouring Thulmann with a sly smile of superiority. “It may be of some small interest to you to know that I have been appointed Witch Hunter General South.”

  “Congratulations,” Thulmann told Zerndorff, the hostile emotion boiling within him held in check only by a supreme effort of will.