The witch hunter pondered the isolation of the keep. In most small villages, such a fortification was commonly surrounded by the dwellings of its common folk, the better to exploit the fort’s thick stone walls for protection in times of war. Here, however, the village and the keep were distinctly separated, and by more than mere distance. There was every sign that the people of Klausberg avoided the residence of their lords and protectors.
The road to the keep was obviously not heavily travelled and did not branch, but proceeded exclusively and directly to the fortress, indicating that the paths employed by the common folk of the district detoured at some great distance from the holdings of the Klausners.
And yet, perhaps it had not always been so. As Thulmann rode down the path between the trees, he sometimes glimpsed the tumbled ruin of a wall, the last outline of a building, the faint impression of a foundation crouched within the shadows of the trees. He had the impression of old stonework, pitted by time and weather, heavy with the clutching tendrils of vines.
Were these perhaps the sorry remnants of some past incarnation of Klausberg? Could it be that because the keep had failed to protect them in the past that the descendants of that long-ago village now dwelt far from the castle? Somehow, the ruins suggested an antiquity greater than that which would give credence to such a theory.
Thulmann considered what he knew of the Klausners and their history. The family first came to prominence during the era of the Three Emperors in the person of one Helmuth Klausner, a renowned witch hunter who had been a great scourge of the forces of darkness and who had been something of a hero during the wars against the vampire counts of Sylvania. Indeed, the district of Klausberg had been awarded to Helmuth Klausner by no less a personage than Grand Theogonist Wilhelm III himself in gratitude for the heroism that marked the witch hunter’s accomplishments.
Since that time, the Klausner family had been remarkable in its devotion to the Temple of Sigmar, many of its sons serving as Sigmarite priests and Templars, following the example of their ancestor. It was an exemplary history of piety, service and honour, a record which made the witch hunter question the animosity and even fear with which the people of the district held the ruling family.
Thulmann knew that a witch hunter’s greatest servant was fear, but it had to be fear tempered by respect. Had the patriarchs of the Klausner family neglected to recall this important lesson when they left the service of the temple to govern their own holdings? Certainly the example displayed by the bullying Anton did not speak well for the manner in which the Klausners conducted themselves.
Thulmann had travelled beneath the shadows of the trees for some time before at last the woods opened up and he saw the keep itself standing before him.
Up close, he began to understand some of the reason the keep was avoided. It was an ugly structure, sprawled atop the small hill like some great bloated black toad. Its walls were high, perhaps forty feet, its battlements craggy and irregular, like the broken teeth of some feral hound.
The central tower rose above the main mass of the structure by another fifty feet, affording it a view that encompassed the entire district. The outer wall of the keep was without windows, its smooth black stone face broken only by the huge door which fronted it. Upon these massive portals of Drakwald timber had been carved the coat of arms that had been the Klausners’ for as long as any could remember: the griffon rampant crushing a slavering wolf beneath its heel. The coat of arms was picked out in a golden trim, the only show of colour in the cheerless facade.
Thulmann rode toward the gate, addressing the armoured sentry he found posted there. The guard considered the witch hunter for a moment, holding his pike in an aggressive manner, before withdrawing through the smaller door set into the larger gate. The sentry was gone only a few minutes before the gates swung inward.
The inner courtyard of Klausner Keep was small, scarcely larger than that of The Grey Crone. The witch hunter stared up at the imposing black walls all around him. It was rather like looking up from the bottom of a well, an impression that did nothing to offset the cheerless air about the place.
Two soldiers with axe-headed pole-arms regarded the witch hunter with stern expressions while a pasty-faced boy scurried out from behind a cluster of barrels to take the reins of Thulmann’s steed. The witch hunter dismounted slowly, his eyes once again staring upward at the fast-darkening sky. He corrected himself. Framed by the black walls of the keep, the view was not so much like that seen from the bottom of a well, but from the bottom of a grave.
A bald-headed, round-faced man wearing a heavy black cloak over his dun-coloured tunic and burgundy breeches watched Thulmann arrive from the raised platform that faced the courtyard. He studied the witch hunter for a moment, then detached himself from the doorway in which he had been framed and descended a flight of broad stone steps to the courtyard, accentuating each movement with a flourish of his slender steward’s staff.
“Allow me to welcome you to Klausner Keep,” the steward announced as he advanced toward Thulmann. “I am Ivar Kohl, steward to his lordship, Wilhelm Klausner.” Ivar smiled apologetically. “His lordship regrets that he could not greet you in person, but his health has not been well of late and his lordship finds the cold night air disagreeable.” The steward smiled again, as false and uncomfortable an expression as Thulmann had ever seen.
“I can sympathise with his lordship,” Thulmann said, his eyes cold, refuting the insincere friendship proffered by the steward. “There is much in Klausberg that can be considered disagreeable.”
The steward redoubled his efforts to put the witch hunter at ease, his smile growing even broader, his hands extending to either side of his body in a gesture of openness. Thulmann waved aside the steward’s words before he could speak them.
“I’ve not travelled here under threat of nightfall to be turned away by a servant at the threshold,” the witch hunter stated, a commanding note in his silky voice. “I am here to see your master, and if he cannot come to meet me, then I must go to see him.” Thulmann pointed at Ivar’s face as the man’s smile slipped away completely. “Take me to see him now, and without any further delay.”
The steward grimaced as Thulmann voiced his demand, then waved at the stable boy to remove their visitor’s horse to the stables. “If you will follow me,” he said, turning his back to the witch hunter and ascending the small flight of stone steps once more. With a last wary glance at the smothering black walls, Mathias Thulmann headed after the retreating steward.
The interior of Klausner Keep was no less repellent to the witch hunter than its exterior. The cold stone walls closed in upon him, even in the cavern-like main hall that opened upon the courtyard, seeming to exude some malevolent, crushing influence. The sparse furnishings which Thulmann could see within the hall, while excellent specimens of craft and skill and polished to a brilliant finish, had an air of mustiness about them, an indefinable aura of antiquity and age.
The only other items to arrest his attention were hung about the far wall, surrounding completely a monstrous hearth flanked by marble columns. These were portraits, a collection of grim and brooding countenances.
The witch hunter broke away from Ivar Kohl and strode across the vast hall to examine the portraits more closely. The steward took several steps before realising that his guest was no longer with him. Ivar cast a worried look about the hall before sighting the black-clad Thulmann gazing up at the portraits.
“The past scions of the Klausner line?” Thulmann asked as Ivar appeared at his side. The witch hunter was certain that such was the case. There was no mistaking the menacing cast of the eyes, the lantern-like jawline and thin, almost sneering lips. He had seen such a face only a few hours before when he had introduced himself to Anton Klausner.
“Indeed,” nodded Ivar, stretching a gloved hand toward the paintings. “All the patriarchs of the Klausner family have had their countenances preserved upon canvas and placed here. From Helmuth himself,” Ivar pointed at
the massive portrait that hung at the very centre of the collection, almost directly above the hearth, “to his lordship Wilhelm Klausner,” here the steward punctuated his words by bowing deferentially to a smaller portrait on the very edge of the grouping. Mathias Thulmann studied both paintings, comparing them and the men they represented.
The portraits had all been created by masters. However much Thulmann might despise the keep itself, he had to concede that the Klausners had a deep appreciation and a keen eye for a talented artist.
Each of the paintings seemed more like a reflection of the man who was their subject. Every line, every crease and wrinkle, every expression was there, captured in paint to endure long after the bones of the real men were dust. The look of imperious command was there in every face, the severity and devotion that any witch hunter must possess to perform his always dangerous, often unpleasant calling.
Thulmann stared at the portrait of Helmuth Klausner. He was pictured as a tall man, broad of shoulder, wearing a suit of burnished plate and a wide-brimmed hat. His face bore all the characteristics of the other Klausners, but the look in the man’s eyes was even more penetrating. There was stamped the fervent, feverish gaze of a fanatic, so certain and firm in the surety of his purpose as to be beyond all reasoning, unwilling to brook any question.
Even the man’s image had a power about him, and Thulmann could feel its echo. Such men became great leaders, heroes of their time, or they were consumed by their own power to become monsters. Thulmann could not decide which legacy the brilliant artist had striven to capture in his intimate study of Helmuth Klausner. The background of the portrait was composed of shadows, clutching, indistinct shapes. Were they cringing away from Helmuth Klausner, or welcoming him as one of their own?
“Nelus, is it not?” Thulmann asked, stabbing a finger at the glowering portrait of Helmuth Klausner. No, the witch hunter decided, there could be no doubt. It was surely the style of the long-dead Tilean master. Truly, the Klausners possessed a true appreciation of art, and were powerful and wealthy enough to bring even a man of such fame as Nelus all the way from Luccini to immortalise them.
“Indeed,” nodded Ivar once more. He gestured back toward the portrait of Wilhelm Klausner. “His lordship’s portrait was done by van Zaentz of Marienburg, some few years before his tragic death.” Thulmann found himself eyeing the more recent painting. It was no idle boast of the steward’s, certainly the portrait was crafted by no less skilled a man than the late Marienburger. Thulmann found himself studying the visage of Wilhelm Klausner. There was a strength to the man, a devotion to duty and honour stamped upon his brow, etched into the harsh outlines of his jaw. But there was more. A slight spiderweb of worry pulling at the corners of his mouth, a trace of unease and doubt seeming to drain the conviction from his stern gaze.
Thulmann turned away from the wall of patriarchs, gesturing for Ivar Kohl to lead the way once more. “A fascinating collection,” the witch hunter declared. “I am now doubly keen to meet a man blessed enough to have sat for van Zaentz.”
The man to whom Ivar Kohl led the witch hunter looked more like a withered skeleton than the powerful figure in the portrait. The strong features had grown lean and thin, the once keen eyes blurred and withdrawn. It was only with some effort that Thulmann managed to keep from gawking in amazement at the apparition he faced. Wilhelm Klausner was only a few years older than Thulmann himself, yet the man lying before him looked withered and wizened enough to be the witch hunter’s grandfather!
The thin creature who sat propped upon a mound of pillows at the head of a gigantic bed still bore an air of command about him, as he gestured for the servants who had brought him a miserable supper of soup and wine to depart. Then the patriarch of the Klausner family cast a stern and demanding eye upon his steward.
“This is the man who insulted my son.” the harsh words snapped from the old man’s lips.
“With respect, your lordship,” Thulmann spoke before the steward could sputter a reply, “your son is the sort of man who invites trouble upon himself. He is fortunate to be your son, otherwise he might not have fared so well raising his hand against a servant of the Temple.” Wilhelm Klausner matched Thulmann’s reproving gaze.
The two men locked eyes for a long moment, as though trying to take each other’s measure. Thulmann was struck by the age and tiredness in Klausner’s gaze. Here was a man who knew that death was stalking his every breath, who had resigned himself to the brevity left to his days.
Wilhelm Klausner looked away, shaking his head and wringing his hands. “I know,” he confessed in a subdued tone. “I have done my best with the boy, done my very best to raise him as a caring father should. But perhaps it is as you say. Perhaps I have overindulged the lad.” He looked again at the witch hunter, this time with a face that was heavy with guilt. “You see, there is a tradition among the Klausners. The eldest son inherits the title and estates, all that this family has achieved. The other sons frequently resent that, feel that it robs their own lives of any value.”
The patriarch attempted a weak smile. “Is it any wonder that Anton should display some bitterness, or that he might need to seek ways to relieve that bitterness?”
“Maybe he should take up opera,” Thulmann commented, his voice cold and unsympathetic. A man made himself, and there was nothing that could justify to Thulmann the bullying cruelty he had seen the young Klausner display in the tavern. Cold hostility replaced guilt in the old man’s eyes.
It was Ivar Kohl who put an end to the tense moment. “My lord, may I present Mathias Thulmann of Altdorf,” the steward introduced Klausner’s visitor. He pivoted his body to make an expressive bow, his hand extended toward the massive bed. “His lordship Wilhelm Klausner,” he needlessly told the witch hunter.
“Bechafen, actually,” Thulmann corrected the steward. “Though I do keep in touch with the Imperial city. It was such a communication that occasioned my coming to Klausberg.”
“Indeed,” said Klausner, his lisp stretching and twisting the word. “And what do they say in Altdorf that has caused an ordained witch hunter to make the long journey to my humble domain?”
“A great deal,” the witch hunter told him. “None of it good.”
“I believe that Herr Thulmann has come here to investigate some exaggerated rumours regarding the recent attacks in the district,” explained Kohl.
Wilhelm Klausner lifted his body from the supporting pillows.
“If such is the case, then I fear that you have come all this way for nothing,” the patriarch stated. He shook his head, a grim smile on his face. “It is some animal, a bit more cunning and fierce than is usual, it is true, but when all is said, still only a wild beast. My hunters will catch it any day now and that will put an end to the matter.”
“They did not seem to think it was something so trivial in Altdorf,” cautioned Thulmann.
“The Klausners are an old family and still hold great influence in some circles,” Ivar Kohl explained. “And they have not done so without earning their share of enemies, even within the temple. It is only to be expected that such enemies would exploit even the most minor of incidents to try and disgrace the Klausner name.”
“It is a wolf, or perhaps some bloodthirsty wild dog, Herr Thulmann,” reiterated Klausner. “Nothing more.” He smiled, leaning forward. “So you see, we have no need of your particular services.”
Thulmann smiled back. Was that what was really behind the patriarch’s icy demeanour? Not the fact that Thulmann had put his antagonistic son in his place, but the fact that he did not want a witch hunter operating in his domain, stepping on Klausner’s own authority?
There were many magistrates and burgomasters who clung so desperately to their own small measures of power and authority that they deeply resented someone who could take that away from them, however temporarily. But Thulmann had not expected such treatment from Wilhelm Klausner. The man had been a witch hunter himself, surely he would be above such petty and selfish poli
ticking?
“Whether you approve or not,” the witch hunter said, “I have been ordered by Sforza Zerndorff, Witch Hunter General South, to investigate the deaths that have been occurring in Klausberg.”
The smile faded from Klausner’s face and the old man sank back into his pillows. “If it is simply a wolf, as you say, then my business here will, I am sure, be most brief The witch hunter’s tone slipped into one of icy challenge. “Incidentally, just how many people has this wolf of yours killed?”
Wilhelm Klausner gave the witch hunter a sour look, clearly disturbed by the question. Ivar Kohl seemed to choke on his words as they stumbled from his mouth.
“I… they say… some twenty or so,” the steward admitted, his voice rippling with a guilty embarrassment. “Of course not all of them might have been killed by the same animal,” he added in a weak attempt to salvage the situation.
Thulmann’s expression was one of strained incredulity. “Twenty or so?” Thulmann could not believe the enormous toll, nor the fact that even in trying to be evasive as to an exact count, Kohl would admit to around twenty victims. How high might the actual number be? “Two phantom man-eaters that you are unable to catch?” he asked. The witch hunter shook his head. “Perhaps you are trying to catch the wrong kind of killer. They don’t seem to share your opinion down in the village. I understand that some of these people were taken from their own homes. Rather bold for an animal, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps the victims had a reason to be abroad at a late hour?” Kohl stated. “Sneaking into a barn for a late night drink, or some clandestine rendezvous. Or maybe the poor fellows heard their animals becoming agitated and decided, unwisely, to see what was upsetting them. Wolves often prowl near livestock, looking for an easy kill. And they say that once a wolf has tasted man-flesh, it prefers human prey above all others’
[Mathias Thulmann 01] - Witch Hunter Page 5
