[Mathias Thulmann 01] - Witch Hunter

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

  “Drink this,” the woman spoke in a stern voice, lifting the bowl of steaming broth to the old man’s mouth. Wilhelm Klausner screwed his jaw tight and turned his head in protest.

  “I’ll have none of that,” the woman scolded him. She was younger than the old man who lay muffled within the mass of blankets and furs piled atop his bed, her long red hair just showing the first hint of silver. She was pretty, a woman who might once have claimed beauty before the hand of time had begun to caress her plump, robust frame. Her cheerful visage and ruddy, healthy glow of her skin were the utter antithesis of the withered, gaunt apparition who grumbled at her from his cavern of bedding.

  An observer would never have guessed that Ilsa was two years her husband’s senior.

  “This soup will warm the chill that you let sink into those stubborn old bones of yours,” Ilsa said, her round cheeks lifting in a smile. Her husband turned his head to face her.

  “Am I master in this house or not?” he growled, his lisp stretching the words into a hiss. “Damnation woman, if I don’t want to drink your concoction, then let me be!”

  Ilsa cocked her head at Wilhelm’s vituperative outburst. “Indeed, and I suppose it was I who told you to go racing out into the morning frost like a starving halfling.” She lifted the bowl to the old man’s face once more. “Now you drink this, unless you like having ice-water in your veins.”

  “Her ladyship is right,” conceded Ivar Kohl. The steward was leaning against the side of the hearth, nursing the fire with an iron poker. He had shed the heavy furs from his morning ride, replacing them with his black livery and robe.

  “You see,” beamed Ilsa Klausner triumphantly, “even nasty old Ivar thinks you should do what’s good for you.” With a sour look at his servant, Wilhelm opened his mouth and allowed his wife to feed him. Ilsa persisted until the bowl had been drained down to its final dregs.

  “Satisfied?” Wilhelm grunted as his wife withdrew the empty bowl. He did not have time to await a reaction, however, but at once doubled over as a fit of coughing seized him. Ilsa reached forward, a concerned look on her face.

  “Whatever possessed you to go rushing out into the cold like that?” she asked, trying to soothe away the coughing with her tender caress. She glanced back at the steward. “You are smarter than this Ivar!” she snapped. “He’s not a young man any more!”

  “His lordship can still present a very fearsome figure when his anger is upon him,” protested Ivar. “And your husband was most determined about his course of action this morning. I doubt even you would have stopped him.” Ilsa turned her attention back toward her husband as the fit subsided.

  “You are too good to me, Ilsa,” the old man said, his gnarled hand touching her cheek. “All the gods smiled upon me when they put you in my life.” Wilhelm drew his wife’s hand to his lips, then sank back into his mound of pillows. “I can imagine no greater treasure in this world than the love of a woman like you. You, and Gregor and Anton,” the patriarch smiled as he spoke the names. “The house of Klausner can never have been more fully blessed.”

  Ilsa rose from her husband’s sick bed, discreetly wiping a tear from her eye. “Listen to you prattle on like some hen-pecked cuckold. Now you sit still and rest.” She turned a stern gaze upon Ivar Kohl. “He needs his sleep,” she told him.

  “Ivar, stay a moment,” Wilhelm called out, his voice a tired rasp. “There are a few things I wish to go over with you.”

  Ilsa favoured both men with a reproving look.

  “As you will have it, but only a moment,” she declared. “Then you get some rest,” she ordered her husband, wagging a scolding finger at him. Ivar Kohl watched her withdraw, closing the door after her.

  “Has she gone?” inquired the patriarch. His steward listened at the door for a moment, then nodded his head. The old man waved at Ivar, beckoning him to the side of the bed.

  “This witch hunter is a menace,” Wilhelm told his servant.

  Ivar Kohl shrugged. “Perhaps, but it is just possible that he might discover who did kill that unfortunate wretch we found in the hollow,” the steward told Wilhelm.

  The old man reached out, grabbing Ivar’s arm.

  “I don’t care about that!” he hissed. “You’ve seen Gregor! He is fascinated by that man and what he is, tagging after him like an eager puppy.”

  “It is only natural,” explained Ivar. “He is a Klausner after all. The trade is in his blood. Now, if you would only allow him to go to Altdorf…”

  Wilhelm’s clutch on his steward’s arm tightened, bringing a gasp of pain from the man. “I’ve told you, I’ll not see my sons robbed of their life and happiness as I was! While I still draw breath, they’ll not!”

  Kohl gasped in relief as Wilhelm’s strength failed and the old man sagged back into his pillows, releasing his grip. The steward tried to smooth the rumpled sleeve of his shirt.

  “You’ve done all in your power to steer him away from that path,” admitted Ivar. “But you cannot defy fate. Perhaps Gregor is meant to…”

  “I’ll defy the gods themselves,” Wilhelm stated, his voice barely a whisper, “if it will keep my family from harm.” He laughed weakly, holding his withered hands before him. “Once I thought I could save the entire Empire from the clutch of Old Night with these hands. Now I only want to protect my own.”

  “You shall,” the steward assured him. Wilhelm swung his head around to look at Ivar once more.

  “I will!” the old man exclaimed. “This witch hunter, he must be kept away from Gregor.”

  Ivar Kohl nodded in sympathy, but spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “There is only so much we can do,” the steward told him. “He is an officer of the temple. Even you have no authority over him.”

  “I want him kept away from my son,” the old patriarch repeated, his gnarled hand closing into a fist at his side.

  Mathias Thulmann stood before the object Gregor had led him to. It was some distance from the path, almost completely covered by the grasping, sickly weeds. It had taken little time to clear them away however, the fragile things crumbling at the touch, a cold breeze sweeping away the filmy dust.

  The witch finder discovered that the chest-high diamond-shaped plinth was no elven relic, but something of much more recent construction, and cut by human hands. Indeed, with his knowledge and eye for quality in works of art, Thulmann could readily appreciate the skill and craftsmanship that had gone into it. The black marble plinth was topped by a small stylised griffon clutching a heavy warhammer in its upraised claw, one of the many symbols of the cult of Sigmar, one that had been quite popular two centuries past. Beneath the statue was a bronze plaque. Thulmann read the inscription.

  “The sacrifices of forgotten martyrs are remembered always,” the witch hunter read aloud.

  “Hmmph,” sneered Streng, spitting into the brambles. “Looks like this thing was pretty well forgotten for all its fancy words. Otherwise you can bet your boot some enterprising wretch would have turned that fancy plaque into bread and ale.”

  “The people of this district are a very superstitious sort,” explained Gregor. “They would not desecrate such a shrine even if they did know of it. I only discovered it when hunting hares several years ago. It was apparently constructed by my great-grandfather, to commemorate the deaths in the village that had preceded the demise of his own father. I wanted you to see this, to show you that in the past, my family has not always regarded the curse with scorn.”

  Thulmann looked away from the plinth, his eyes wandering across the landscape around them. “These trees are old,” he stated. “Even two hundred years ago they would have been large.”

  “What’s that have to do with anything?” Streng asked, not following his employer’s train of thought. Thulmann stared at the brutal mercenary.

  “Why place a monument, especially one that has obviously been constructed at such great expense, where no one could see it?” the witch hunter elaborated. He turned his gaze toward Gregor. “U
nless of course it was not meant to be seen. Perhaps your ancestor felt guilt for the deaths he associated with the family curse, felt an obligation to honour what he considered their sacrifice, but at the same time was ashamed to display that obligation openly” The Templar turned away from the plinth and his thoughts.

  “I need to examine these records you have mentioned,” he told Gregor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The brooding mass of Klausner Keep seemed to swallow Thulmann and his companions as they rode through the black gates. Once again, the witch hunter had the impression of some vast and noxious toad squatting atop the hill, surrounded on all sides by a wretched and diseased forest and the crumbling relics of an elder age. Even in daylight, the unpleasantness of the small courtyard and the black stone walls was not lessened.

  Gregor Klausner conducted the witch hunter and his henchman into the vast entry hall, leaving the horses to be tended by servants. The young noble turned to speak with Thulmann as he led the way.

  “The library is located on the northern face of the keep. The records we want to examine will be found there,” he explained. The young noble turned as he saw the black-clad shape of Ivar Kohl descending the broad staircase. “Excuse me please,” he told the witch hunter.

  Ivar Kohl regarded Thulmann with an oily look, a false smile forcing itself to his features. He continued to descend the stairway as Gregor hurried toward him. “Master Gregor,” the steward addressed the noble. “I trust that your morning has been… productive.”

  “My father, Ivar, how is he?”

  The steward adopted a posture not unlike that of a lecturer delivering a dissertation. “Well,” Ivar began, “your father is not a young man. I am afraid that the excitement and tragedy of the scene in the hollow has upset him greatly. And the chill of this morning has disordered his humours. He is not so resistant to the caprices of temperature as he once was,” Ivar stated regretfully.

  “I should go to him,” Gregor declared. The grin on Ivar’s face spread, becoming a touch more genuine. He reached out and gripped the noble’s shoulder.

  “Yes, you should,” agreed the steward. “Your father is resting at the moment, but I am certain that seeing you would do him more good than any amount of sleep.”

  Gregor nodded. He looked back toward Thulmann and Streng. “I shall only be a moment, I wish to check upon my father.” He looked back toward the steward. “Ivar, please conduct Herr Thulmann and his associate to the library. I shall join them shortly.”

  “Ivar, conduct those men out of my home,” a harsh, commanding voice spoke from the top of the stairs. All eyes turned upon the gaunt, sickly figure that stood there, lean frame-swaddled in a heavy cloak. Wilhelm Klausner glared down at the witch hunter for a moment, then swung his gaze upon his son. “In fact, you can see them out of my district. I don’t want them here, scaring the peasants and filling their heads with all sorts of morbid nonsense.”

  Ivar Kohl took a reluctant step toward the witch hunter, but a sharp glance from Thulmann froze the servant. Thulmann advanced to the base of the stairway, looking past Gregor at the skeletal figure of his father.

  “There is still evil abroad in these lands, your lordship,” Thulmann said, his silky voice rippling with menace. “While it is, there is work for me to do here.”

  “Then you refuse to accept my wishes?” the old patriarch snarled. “That is unwise.”

  “Father,” interrupted Gregor, climbing the stairs to stand beside his sire. “Herr Thulmann has come here to help.”

  “He’s come here to undermine my authority!” corrected Wilhelm, his lisping voice rising with his anger. “Come here to twist this entire district against me with his bogey stories and shadow-chasing. But I’ll not have it!” The old man shook his thin hand at Thulmann. “You forget just who I am, witch finder. I am no petty burghomeister to be bullied and frightened by your tricks. I am not without my own influence, and I shall bring it to bear upon you if you continue to defy me. The elector count himself has dined within these walls, and I have sat to supper with two emperors. Need I remind you that the Grand Theogonist is one of my oldest and dearest friends?” Wilhelm laughed, a low dry rattle that slithered from his throat. “Defy me and you will wind up burned at the stake yourself as an apostate!”

  Thulmann stood his ground, meeting the patriarch’s challenging gaze. “There is a monster at work in your district, Klausner. I will leave when it is ash and blackened bone and not before. No threat from you will change that.”

  Wilhelm Klausner’s face twisted into an animalistic snarl, but before the patriarch could give voice to the invective boiling up within him, another fit of coughing wracked his body. Wilhelm crumpled into the arms of his son, allowing Gregor to conduct him back to his room. Thulmann watched the two Klausners withdraw, then faced Ivar Kohl once more.

  “His lordship is not quite himself,” the steward apologised. “These killings and his unwise venture this morning have disturbed his thoughts’

  “I will conduct my inquiries in the village today” Thulmann told the servant. “Perhaps when I return I will find his lordship in a more conciliatory mood.”

  “That would be for the best,” Ivar Kohl nodded his head enthusiastically. “I am sure that when this sickness passes you will find his lordship much more agreeable.” Thulmann lifted a warning finger.

  “Cooperative or not,” he said, “I will be back. You might relay that information to your master.” Turning on his heel, the witch hunter stalked from the hall. Streng paused to snort derisively as he passed the steward, then followed his employer into the courtyard.

  Ivar Kohl watched the door close behind the two men, the false pleasantry slipping from his face, his usual mask of cunning rising to take its place. Sick or not, Wilhelm Klausner was correct, the witch hunter was a menace. Possibly one that might have to be attended to in a more direct manner. Still, while the perpetrator of last night’s atrocity was still abroad, the witch hunter might have his uses. There was no reason to act in a hasty and irreversible fashion. Not yet, at least.

  Upon his return to the inn, Mathias Thulmann found the common room of The Grey Crone crammed with people. As the witch hunter strode through the door, the excited murmur of the crowd died away and every face in the building turned in his direction.

  The witch hunter scrutinised the crowd, seeing old men stooped with age and young, burly lads just beginning to grow their beards. They were garbed in simple homespun or furs, or else in modest fabrics such as might be found clinging to the frame of merchants and traders in any town in the Empire. It was a cross-section of Klausberg that faced Thulmann, men from the lowest classes and men from what passed for the wealthy elite of the village. They were men who under normal circumstances would not have deigned to walk the same side of the street as one another. But these were not normal times, and a grim and dreadful common purpose had united them and brought them here.

  Streng muscled his way past the witch hunter, the thug’s hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. The mercenary did a quick count of the sullen, expectant faces looking at them. “Aren’t you the popular one?” he muttered to his employer from the corner of his mouth.

  Streng discreetly removed his hand from his weapon. In a louder voice he said: “I don’t know about you, Mathias, but I could do with some ale to wash away the chill from our ride this morning.” Streng left his master’s side and strolled toward the counter where Reikhertz stood wiping his hands upon his apron.

  “It seems your custom has improved, friend Reikhertz,” Thulmann said in his silky voice. The familiar tone nearly caused the innkeeper to drop the flagon he was handing to Streng.

  Reikhertz cast a nervous glance at the mob.

  “Can I help with something perhaps?” the witch hunter asked the foremost of the men, a rotund fellow with brightly striped breeches of white and red and a bronze-buttoned leather vest. Thulmann’s tone was imperious and the surly merchant retreated from his gaze. The witch hunter turned his attent
ion to the man standing beside the merchant. He was tall and black-bearded, his bare arms rippling with muscle. Thulmann guessed that the man was a blacksmith.

  “Aye,” the man said, “you can start by telling us what you and those damn Klausners intend to do to stop these murders!” With every word, the mob surged uneasily, their courage bolstered as their spokesman gave voice to the source of their fear and outrage. Thulmann did not speak at once, but stepped toward the bar, leaning his back against the hard wooden surface, adopting a practiced pose of unconcern and inoffensiveness.

  “A glass of wine, if you would, Reikhertz,” the witch hunter told the innkeeper. “Red, and in a glass, if that is achievable.” Thulmann turned around, taking his time to answer the smith’s question, allowing the crowd’s mood to simmer.

  He needed these people angry. Anger was a poor cousin to courage, but it would suit his purposes. These people were afraid of the thing that was preying upon them, and that fear might keep their lips closed when Thulmann needed them at their most active.

  “For my part,” the witch hunter said, nodding to Reikhertz as the nervous man set his wine down on the counter and scuttled away, “I intend to bring a halt to these atrocities.”

  “And what about his lordship?” an angry voice snarled from the back of the crowd. Thulmann took his time to answer, sipping at his wine. Beside him, an increasingly uneasy Streng watched the discontent grow within the crowd.

  “As for his lordship,” Thulmann commented, setting his glass down once more, “he is convinced that a wolf is preying upon his district.” The statement brought an incredulous murmur from the gathering. “In fact, one of his sons is leading a hunting party to look for the animal even as we speak.” The murmur grew into an angry roar.

  “Sure you know what you’re doing?” Streng asked in a low whisper.

  “Rest easy and continue drowning your wits,” Thulmann told his underling.

  “Klausner plays games!” growled the smith, his deep voice roaring above the crowd. “He plays games while our people die!”