[Mathias Thulmann 01] - Witch Hunter

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

  “Perhaps things are as you say, Master Klausner,” Thulmann said, his voice uncertain. “In any event, you know too much for me not to trust you a little longer.” The witch hunter’s face slipped into a thin smile. “We will find out tonight if that trust is misplaced.”

  Fuming from the witch hunter’s words, Gregor could only nod his head in understanding. Thulmann indicated the door, motioning for the young noble to precede him. Streng paused to remove a brass buckle from the dead man lying against the counter, then produced a knife to cut away the bronze buttons from his tunic. A sharp growl from Thulmann caused the mercenary to rise from his ghoulish labour, stuffing the few trinkets he had looted into a pocket. Slamming his knife back into its sheath, the mercenary hurried after Thulmann.

  When they had gone, Reikhertz came around the counter to study the dead man a little more closely. His face again wrinkled in annoyance.

  “Nasty…” he muttered. He turned and shouted to his remaining patrons. “Right, that’s nasty. Help me clean it away now!”

  Ivar Kohl stalked the corridors of Klausner Keep, his face dark and brooding. His spies in the village had reported that the two sell-swords had failed in their task to kill the witch hunter. The steward hissed in anger as he considered how disastrous things could have become had either of them lived long enough to say who had paid them to murder the Templar. Perhaps Sigmar truly was lending his aid to Kohl’s purposes.

  Of course, the survival of the witch hunter might also be taken as a token of divine intervention. Bruno Fleischer had been quite an accomplished blade in his own rights, and Kohl had been quite confident in the swordsman’s ability to despatch the Templar, especially with a second man to stack the odds in Fleischer’s favour. The steward cursed again. It was bad enough that things had become so complicated and drawn-out. The meddling of a witch hunter was the last thing he needed, especially since it seemed he might be coming close to guessing the truth.

  The steward strode into the kitchens, ignoring the servants who scurried out of his way, knowing better than to cross the grim Kohl in his current mood. Ivar Kohl soon faded past them, his black livery melding with the shadows that hung heavy about the short hallway that led to the wine cellar.

  There was no question about it: the witch hunter was a threat, and a pronounced one. He would have to be dealt with. Kohl would arrange a more certain course of action, perhaps send for a professional assassin rather than trust again to the capabilities of ex-soldiers.

  Kohl found himself within the dingy confines of the cellar. Ranks of wine racks filed away off into the gloom while mammoth casks and barrels of beer loomed against the walls. The steward strode toward one of the beer barrels, its surface covered in cobwebs.

  He slid his fingers into the tiny groove just under the steel rim of the barrel, depressing the tiny stud he found there. The top of the barrel slid back, exposing a small compartment within. Kohl reached down and withdrew the heavy black robe and gleaming gold-hilted knife he found there.

  Threat or no, the steward considered, the witch hunter would have to wait. Tonight’s ritual would complete the pattern and close the circle. It was too important to put off, and any delay would undo all that had already been done. Ivar Kohl shuddered as he considered the horror of such a disaster. No, nothing could be allowed to stop the ceremony.

  He spoke a short prayer to Sigmar that no more rituals would be needed after this one, that it would be the last.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Darkness hung heavy across the land. Clouds, thick and dark, had been blown down from the north, casting a pall across the gleaming face of Mannsleib. The moon could only be dimly seen behind the cloud cover, a dull glow behind the dark, nebulous shapes, flaring brilliantly during the infrequent breaks between the clouds. The same chill wind crawled about the ground, causing leaves to skitter and trees to sway.

  It was a night made for horrors, when even the most sceptical city dweller might ponder the darker mysteries of the world and pause before every shadow, jump at every unseen sound.

  Through the darkness, two shapes crept from shadow to shadow, pushing a third before them. Wet, wailing sounds could dimly be heard shuddering from the leading figure, her white dress standing out brilliantly against the landscape when she chanced to linger between shadows. Her body was young and shapely, a thing of delicate curves and slender smooth-skinned limbs. She was shivering beneath the thin covering of white homespun, damp with the sweat of fear.

  The woman’s steps were awkward and ungainly despite the gracefulness of her form, and it was with groans of pain that she stumbled and fell, her choking sobs muffled by the filthy linen sack that had been thrown over her head.

  Her name was Deithild, one of five daughters of Reimar Stoss, one of Klausberg’s numerous shepherds. In her twenty years of life, she had never experienced much that had been remarkable or exciting, and her ambitions did not extend beyond the prospect of a dreary marriage to seal some business dealing of her father’s. The terror that had been stalking the district had been the first discordant note in her life, breaking up the harmony and pattern of her days.

  Now, instead of taking turns to tend the flocks, her father took the entire household with him, determined that the horror stalking the land would not glut itself upon his valuable animals. This night, however, Deithild had begged away from helping her sisters, claiming illness with such conviction that even her suspicious father had not pressed the issue.

  However, instead of long hours of restful slumber, the young woman had found herself awakened in the middle of the night. The terror that had been prowling Klausberg had reached out to claim her, snatching her not from the chill of her father’s pastures, but from the supposed safety of her own bed.

  “Pick up the pace, bitch,” snarled one of the brutish men following her, his leathery hand jerking sharply on the rope that bound Deithild’s hands behind her back. The woman wailed into her cruel hood as she was forced back to her feet by the painful pressure working on her arms.

  The two men wore rough leather breeches, tunics of wool and crude boots of hide and fur. Swords hung from their hips and one of the men fingered the stock of a pistol holstered across his belly. Their faces reflected the simplicity of the minds behind them.

  They were men who took a sadistic delight in the labours which they were sometimes called upon to perform, the sort of unscrupulous men that might be found in the service of any noble family, much like an ill-tempered guard dog, creatures tolerated purely for their usefulness.

  These men had made themselves very useful over the past few weeks. Certainly, their nocturnal labours had been greatly different from their usual duties—the beating of peasants who refused to pay their tax, torching the wagons of merchants that thought to escape paying Lord Klausner for the privilege of passing through his lands. Still, the escalation of their brutality did not disturb the two unduly. Certainly these nocturnal sojourns for Ivar Kohl paid much better than any tasks they had before been charged with before. For men without conscience, that was enough.

  Deithild was leaning against a tree, trying to gather breath between her terrified sobs. The brute holding the rope jerked her around, spilling the girl to the ground. His companion gave a short bark of amusement.

  “Now you’ve gone and got her all dirty,” he laughed.

  “Pick the wench up. Kohl will skin us if we’re late,” the other snarled. His companion stepped forward, his hairy hands grabbing a hold of Deithild’s arms. He paused in lifting her, moving one hand to slide down the length of her leg. The captive tried to wriggle out of his clutch, but her strength was not equal to the task.

  “Shame to waste a fine cut of meat like this on Kohl,” the brute holding the girl commented. He laid his neck on the woman’s shoulder, blowing his hot breath through the sacking. “What say you? If you’re be nice to us, maybe we’ll let you go.”

  “Enough of that!” snapped the man holding onto the rope. “We don’t have time to bounce the
wench. Kohl’s expecting us.” The other kidnapper licked the bare shoulder of their captive before withdrawing.

  “It just seems like a waste, that’s all,” the thug said. He looked back at the bound woman, raising his voice so that she could hear every word. “I mean taking her out there, to him. To be cut up like something at a butcher’s shop.” Deithild fell to her knees again, shuddering and sobbing, wailing with horror. The man holding the rope gave it a savage tug, pulling her back up.

  “She faints and you’re carrying her,” growled the brute holding the rope. His companion laughed again.

  Ivar Kohl stood beneath the shadows cast by the broken stone wall. It was a curious thing, the steward thought. The blocks did not seem to have been mortared but rather fit into one another with such precision that nothing more was needed to hold them in place. Most likely some old elf trick, the steward shrugged. There were many mysteries surrounding the elder race. He doubted if men would ever uncover them all.

  The steward cast a nervous eye overhead, licking his lips nervously as he saw the darkening clouds. This was a problem he did not need. The emergence of Morrsleib had to be timed correctly for the ritual to have its full effect. Kohl did not want to trust to any diminishment of the power of the ancient rite. For a moment, he almost wished he knew some sorcerous tricks that would banish storms.

  The steward smiled at the thought, chiding himself for such weakness. That way lies heresy, he told himself.

  Kohl cast a sour glance at the man standing beside him, then looked away when he heard the faint sounds of someone making their way through the woods. He retreated a bit deeper into the shadow, but as he listened further, he could hear the now familiar muffled sobs and wails of a sacrifice as the doomed soul was led to the place of ritual by his thugs.

  A fanatic gleam flared up in the steward’s eyes. He looked again at the figure standing beside him, nodding his head. The man helped Kohl into his black robe, then handed the steward a golden dagger.

  “Pray to Sigmar that this is the last,” Kohl said, striding out into the clearing to greet the approaching figures. He could see his men leading their charge forward. A sickly smile crept onto Kohl’s features. Sigmar forgive him, but a part of him hoped it wouldn’t be.

  “Stay with the horses,” Thulmann said, his voice sharp and cold. Gregor Klausner glared back at the witch hunter.

  “I tell you again that I had nothing to do with those men at the inn,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time that night. As before, his declaration did not impress the Templar.

  “We will soon find out, won’t we?” There was no mistaking the tone of menace in Thulmann’s words. They stood within the trees bordering the Klausner estate, gazing down upon the clearing where the witch hunter had predicted that the next ritual would take place. The witch hunter had brought them here directly after the events at The Grey Crone, secreting them among the trees. All three men had shared watch duty, waiting until their insidious quarry showed himself. Gregor had begged the witch hunter to spring as soon as they had seen the two men lurking at the edges of the clearing, but Thulmann had called for them to maintain their vigil, awaiting the arrival of the other conspirators and their victim.

  “Streng,” the witch hunter hissed. The bearded mercenary looked up at him from where he crouched close to the ground. “Master Klausner is remaining here. Kindly relieve him of his armaments’ The witch hunter smiled thinly at the young noble. “Purely so you might not be tempted into any injudicious actions,” he explained. Gregor scowled as he lifted his arms and allowed Streng to remove his sword belt and pistol.

  “Nothing personal, you understand,” Streng told him. The mercenary cast an appraising eye over the sword he held. “Of course,” he considered, a greedy glint in his eyes, “if you are a heretic I’ll get to keep these.” He grinned back at Gregor. “Nothing personal of course.”

  “An end to your chatter, man,” snapped Thulmann, drawing both his pistols. “We’ve work to do.”

  Gregor Klausner watched the two men slip into the darkness, slinking toward the clearing where they could now see three figures approaching. Gregor knew they had to be the other heretics and their captive. A cold determination swelled up within him. He stepped away from the horses, removing the tiny pocket pistol Streng had not known about. It was an old thing, a relic captured by some long dead Klausner during a crusade in Araby. Since that time, it had served the Klausners well. It would do so again this night.

  Of that, Gregor was determined.

  Sweat beaded Kohl’s brow as he stepped toward the approaching men. This would be the one, he could feel it. This would be the one that would put an end to the horror. It had to be. It had to work this time. Kohl fingered the hilt of the dagger nervously as he advanced.

  A sharp crack and boom intruded upon the silence. Kohl crumpled to the ground as his knee exploded, bursting apart as though an ogre had smashed it with a hammer. The ceremonial dagger flew out of his grasp, skittering off into the dark. Kohl winced in agony, rolling onto his back, fighting to keep from blacking out from the pain surging through him.

  He could see a man emerging from the trees, black cloak billowing about him, his face hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. Smoke rose from the pistol gripped in his left hand. He pointed with the other into the gloom. Ivar Kohl felt disgust and rage swell over his pain. The witch hunter! He should have known.

  “Draw your steel, you sons of blaspheming slatterns!” Thulmann roared, his voice burning with outrage and challenge. The pistol in his hand roared in turn, spitting flame and smoke. The ruffian holding the rope that bound the captive woman gave a cry of agony. He released his grip, falling to the ground and rolling in agony as he clutched the weeping crimson mask that had moments before been his face. The woman dropped to her knees, screaming in terror into the sack that covered her head. The other brute turned to run.

  “Going somewhere, friend?” hissed Streng, emerging from the trees opposite Thulmann and plunging Gregor’s sword into the fleeing villain’s stomach. The man gasped, hands flying to his injury, trying to staunch the stream of blood and bile.

  Streng smashed him aside with the engraved hilt of the sword, knocking him to the ground. The mercenary lifted the pistol gripped in his other hand, sighting across the clearing at the dark-garbed man who emerged from the trees. The pistol cracked and roared, the impact of the bullet spinning the man as he ran toward Thulmann, a cavalry sabre clenched in his fist. Kohl’s assistant cried out as he fell.

  Thulmann strode toward Ivar Kohl’s prone body, holstering his pistols and drawing his sword. A look of indignation, wrath and disgust pulled at the witch hunter’s features.

  He glared down at Kohl. If he was surprised to see the steward’s face underneath the black robes, Thulmann did not let it show. He pricked the injured man’s throat with the point of his blade. Kohl’s eyes grew wide with horror. Thulmann smiled down at him coldly.

  “Oh no,” his silky voice had a quality of malevolent mirth about it. “You don’t die so easily, or so quickly.”

  Across the clearing, Streng removed the linen sack from the sobbing Deithild’s head. He paused to admire the cast of her pretty features, then busied himself undoing the knots that bound her hands.

  He fumbled with the knot for some time, one dirty paw clutching at the woman’s chest, ostensibly to support her. The mercenary looked up at her, a lewd smile on his crude features. “Sorry about that,” he told her, doing nothing to remove the groping fingers. “Everything’s going to be all right. Isn’t nobody going to hurt you while I have anything to say about it.”

  As he freed her hands, Streng braced himself for a slap to his jaw. Instead, such was the woman’s relief at her rescue that she wrapped around Streng’s neck, crushing him in a fierce hug, her face buried in his grimy tunic as she sobbed with relief.

  Streng smiled above her embrace. “Very nice to see you feel this way about me,” he grinned.

  Mathias Thulmann se
t his heel on Kohl’s chest, pinning the injured steward to the ground, then inspected the man’s wound. His leg was pumping a steady stream of blood; already a small puddle of it was congealing around the man. Thulmann swore under his breath, sheathing his sword and pulling a laced handkerchief from his vest.

  “It won’t do to have you bleed out on me, Master Kohl. Not until you’ve answered a few questions.”

  “I’ll tell you nothing!” Kohl snarled through his pain. The witch hunter tore the piece of fabric, then wound it around the steward’s bleeding stump. He smiled in cruel mockery at the heretic as he pulled the makeshift tourniquet tight.

  “Yes,” he chuckled grimly, “I do believe I have heard that one before.”

  “Thulmann!” Gregor’s voice shouted from the night. Thulmann turned his head to see the young noble emerging from the trees, a small pistol clutched in his hand. Before the witch hunter could react, the gun gave a sharp bark and yellow fire, grey smoke and lead death erupting from its barrel. The echo of the discharge was almost immediately drowned out by a burbling wail of anguish.

  The witch hunter turned his head in the direction of the sound. The man Streng had earlier shot was lying in a spreading pool of gore, a dark depression in the middle of his forehead. The man’s dead hand was closed around a dagger.

  “Friend Streng,” Thulmann called out. The mercenary was looking over at his employer, having extracted himself from the thankful embrace of the young woman as soon as he had heard the pistol shot. “Your slovenly marksmanship will cost you five gold crowns,” the witch hunter declared. The mercenary shrugged his shoulders, turning his attention back to Deithild’s gratitude.