“I understood that there was something you wished of me,” Thulmann interjected.
“Just so,” Zerndorff answered. “As you can imagine, the restructuring of the order has not been accomplished without a great deal of bad feeling on the part of those whose power, or ambitions for power, has been compromised as a result of the abolishment of the post of Lord Protector. The Great Temple in Altdorf is a nest of plotters and schemers these days, accusation and rumour as plentiful as sand in the desert of Araby Everyone seeks to discredit everyone else and even the Grand Theogonist is not without his detractors. Indeed, there are some who try to connect Volkmar with Gamow’s heresy, try to say that his restructuring of the order is a heretical plot to weaken the temple and reduce the efficiency of the witch hunters rather than a measure to protect against the possibility of another Gamow.
“You are an honest and loyal man, Mathias, and I trust in your devotion to the temple, even if I question your methods. There is a matter in which I need someone of such conviction, someone I know to be above the petty schemes and plots running rife in Altdorf. Rumours have reached my office, disturbing rumours that give me cause for concern.” The Witch Hunter General’s demeanour became somewhat furtive and it was with a slightly lowered voice that he continued.
“You have heard no doubt of the Klausner family?” Zerndorff asked.
“The name is familiar, though I cannot say that the particulars stand out in my mind,” Thulmann replied somewhat warily.
Zerndorff leaned forward, his fingers steepled on top of the table.
“The Klausners are an old and highly respected family” Zerndorff told him. Very devout Sigmarites, and very zealous in their faith. Many of them have been priests and templars over the years, and not a few of them have achieved rather respectable distinction. The family can trace its roots back five hundred years. They were awarded a small holding south of here in 2013, and have lorded over it ever since, their district notable for its very generous tithes of money and crops to the temple. Klausberg, they named it, farm and pasture country, somewhat renowned for the quality of their cattle. The present patriarch of the family and lord of Klausberg, Wilhelm Klausner, is a personal friend of the Grand Theogonist himself.
“You will understand then, why when rumours that something strange and terrible has made its presence known in Klausberg that I was immediately interested.” Zerndorff’s voice dripped into an almost conspiratorial whisper. “Something is killing the people of Klausberg. Something unnatural and unholy, if the tales coming out of there are to be believed.”
“What sort of tales?” Thulmann asked, feeling himself drawn into Zerndorff s theatrics despite his determination not to suffer the man’s manipulative tricks.
“Tales of men stolen from their beds in the dead of night,” Zerndorff said, “only to be found in some field or hollow in the morning, face ripped away innards spilled about the ground. Tales of young maidens walking home from tending their flocks never to be seen alive again, taken by the daemon beast that stalks unhindered about the land. If we were to trust the frightened gossip that has trickled into the ears of my informants, then this daemon creature has already claimed a hundred lives, adding another corpse to its tally almost every night.”
“Surely an exaggeration,” observed Thulmann.
“Oh, doubtless the stories have grown in the telling,” Zerndorff admitted, a smug smile on his face. “But even such tales have some truth at their root. Something is going on in Klausberg, something is killing people there. And whatever it is doesn’t behave like an animal or an orc or a beastman or any of the other murderous things the people of our troubled land are used to coping with. There is something very unusual about the murders in Klausberg. Given the history of the ruling family, it is not impossible that some sinister enemy of the temple has chosen to wreck havoc upon their lands.”
“I have my own investigations to conduct here in Wurtbad,” Thulmann informed his superior.
Zerndorff shook his head.
“You will have to set all other matters aside,” he told Thulmann. “Instruct Meisser in what needs to be done. I want you to look into what is going on in Klausberg. I need to know what is happening, the nature of the fiend that is preying upon the lands of the Grand Theogonist’s friend. I need to know if this is the opening stroke in some larger plot to discredit or destroy the Grand Theogonist’s chief supporters. I have grave concerns that those behind such a plot might be secret disciples of Gamow who may yet operate within the temple. I want you to go there and learn if my fears are well founded.” Zerndorff rose to his feet, retrieving his soft, almost shapeless silk hat from its place on the table.
“I know that I can trust you to not fail the temple in this matter, and to be discreet about whom you inform of your findings,” he said. Zerndorff lingered for a moment as his bodyguard opened the inn door. When one of the soldiers signalled that all was in order, Sforza Zerndorff strode out to the carriage awaiting him outside, without a backward glance.
Mathias Thulmann watched the retreating Witch Hunter General’s back, his sullen gaze watching the short man’s every step, his manner the same as that of a herd dog keeping a close eye on a prowling wolf. Even after Zerndorff was gone, Thulmann kept an easy hand on the hilt of his sword.
Witch Hunter General South. It was sometimes difficult to maintain faith in justice when it seemed that villainy was rewarded at every turn. Thulmann had worked with Zerndorff long ago, an association which he held no pride in. Zerndorff was a ruthless man, a callous man and above all an ambitious man.
His methods were centred more upon speed and efficiency than they were upon protecting the innocent and punishing the guilty. Zerndorff practised his trade with the same wanton brutality which had characterised the templar knights during the dark days of the Three Emperors. He gave no thought to proving guilt, even less thought to the possibility of executing an innocent man or woman.
For Zerndorff, it was the number and frequency of executions that mattered. Those suspected of some heresy were tried and convicted as soon as their name was made known to him, all else was simply tradition; breaking the suspect on the rack, wringing a confession from their bloody lips, these were nothing more than theatre, placating a secular system of law which Zerndorff felt did not apply to him. He was the sort of man who would cure a crop of weevils by putting it to the torch. Yet this was just the sort of man who had earned the attention of Altdorf, the sort of man who had been promoted to a position that gave him power over a third of the Empire. Thulmann struck his fist into the palm of his hand, cursing the inequity of Zerndorff’s good fortune.
That Zerndorff had chosen Thulmann to look into the incidents in Klausberg was, the witch hunter was certain, simply Zerndorff’s way of exerting his newly granted authority over his one time associate, of reminding Thulmann of how greatly their positions had changed. That it interfered with Thulmann’s own affairs made the matter all the more pleasing to Zerndorff, Thulmann was certain. That the man he hunted might escape once again while Thulmann was on his fool’s errand would not have concerned Zerndorff in the slightest. They could always find another witch to burn. Most likely, when he arrived in Klausberg, Thulmann would learn that the incident was nothing more than the work of a pack of wolves or a band of goblins, despite Zerndorff’s insistence that it was something more.
The witch hunter paused as he began to consider this light dismissal of Zerndorff’s assignment. True, his old rival was a petty and malicious man, but he was also a man who was obsessed with efficiency. If he had made the trip down from Altdorf, there had been more to his journey than trying to put Thulmann in his place. Zerndorff could have simply sent a messenger for something so inconsequential. No, there must be something behind the Witch Hunter General’s suspicions, something that Zerndorff expected to profit from by investigating. But what? The Klausners were old friends of the Grand Theogonist. Zerndorff’s own familiarity with Volkmar could hardly be considered so amicable. Why then
was Zerndorff so interested in the safety of a house that was so supportive of the Grand Theogonist? Did he really think to expose some conspiracy against Volkmar, or did he perhaps hope to gain control of it?
Mathias Thulmann stared once again at the door through which Sforza Zerndorff had departed. What would he find in Klausberg?
The tiny room was barely five paces wide and only a little greater in depth, its walls of bare black stone illuminated only by the flickering fingers of flame rising from the double-headed candlestick that rested below a small altar. Two doors were set against the walls to left and right of the altar, doors that connected to rooms where warmth and comfort were not considered impious and improper. The air within the cell-like chamber was chill and carried with it the dampness of the outer walls of the old keep.
The small room’s sole occupant shuddered in the cold draft, drawing the heavy wool cloak a bit tighter about his scrawny frame. He was far from young and noted the creeping chill far more than any other in his household. Yet he had attended his midnight devotions here, in this small chapel set between the master bedchamber and the one set aside for the lady of the keep, for more than a quarter of a century, and he would never forsake his pious ablutions. Indeed, there were few things that could quiet old Wilhelm Klausner’s troubled mind in the long watches of the night sufficiently to allow him to sleep. The calming peace of casting his respectful gaze upon the heavy steel hammer resting upon the altar was one of them. A devout Sigmarite all his life, it did Wilhelm’s soul good to think that the patron god of the Empire was looking down upon him.
Wilhelm’s hands were thin and pale, blotched and devoid of both strength and substance. The massive gold ring, with its rampant griffon crushing a ravening wolf under its clawed foot, hung loose about the old man’s finger, as though the slightest motion might set it sliding from its perch to roll across the bare stone floor. Wilhelm himself was an embodiment of age and infirmity, shoulders stooped beneath the weight of years, face gaunt and lean, eyes withdrawn into their pits, dull and bleary with cataracts. His hair was silver-grey, hanging down about his shoulders in an unkempt nest. It was not time alone that had placed its stamp upon Wilhelm Klausner, but the ultimate effects of a hard life filled with trouble and discord.
The old man lifted his head, his dull eyes considering the altar and its icon. Prayers slipped from Wilhelm’s mouth as he repeated over and again a simple catechism he had learned long ago, a plea for protection from the denizens of the Old Night.
Wilhelm’s head snapped around from his devotions as he heard the heavy oak door connecting the chapel to his own chambers slowly open.
A man passed through the portal. He was broad of shoulder with a face that was full and plump. His rounded head was all but devoid of hair, only a light fuzz clinging to the back and edges of his skull. His face was sharp despite its fullness, the nose stabbing downward like a dagger. There was a gleam to his soft brown eyes that somehow added to the overall air of cunning that seemed to cling about him like a mantle. He strode forward, his staff clacking against the door as he stepped past it, the large brass buckles upon his boots gleaming as they reflected the feeble light of the candles.
“Forgive the intrusion, my lord,” the steward addressed Wilhelm as the patriarch began to rise. “I wanted to inform you that I have received word from the village.” The steward paused for a moment, setting the end of his staff against the floor and resting his weight against it. “It would seem the ‘the beast’ has struck again. Young Bruno Fleischer, body mangled almost beyond identity.” The steward paused again, favouring his master with a look of sympathy. “I believe that you knew him.”
Wilhelm Klausner gained his feet with a sigh. “Yes,” he said, the characteristic lisp extending the word. “I knew him and his father. Very old friends of the family” The old man cast his gaze to the floor, wringing his hands in despair. “What have I done that I should invite such horror upon my people?” He looked once more at his steward, his eyes filled with pleading. “Tell me, Ivar, am I so steeped in wickedness that Sigmar should forsake me? And if I am, why then punish my people and not myself, if the guilt for .these things be mine?”
“You have broken with tradition, perhaps that is why this terror stalks the district,” the servant informed his master. “You should have allowed your sons—”
“No!” the old patriarch snapped, strength suddenly infusing his voice. “I’ll not let my sons walk the same path as me. I love them too well to wish such a curse upon them!”
“A strange way to speak of serving the order of Sigmar’s Knights of the Temple,” Ivar commented in a quiet tone. “One might almost describe it as heretical,” he warned.
“For ten years I played the role demanded of me by tradition. For ten years I travelled this great Empire, searching out the blackest of horrors, things which haunt my mind even now.” Wilhelm Klausner turned to face the altar again. “I did that out of love for Lord Sigmar. He knows the measure of my devotion. But I’ll not condemn my sons to ruin themselves as I have been ruined!”
“To fend off the darkness, there is always a price which must be paid,” cautioned Ivar. “No good has ever been achieved without the sacrifices of good men.”
“Then let some other suffer that sacrifice!” Wilhelm declared, rounding on his servant once more. “The Klausners have paid more than their share. I have already lost so much, I’ll not lose my sons as well.” The patriarch held his hand before his face, turning the wrinkled, withered thing before his eyes. “Look at me, Ivar. Anyone would think me your senior. None would believe that you served my father before me. See how the horror I have witnessed has changed me, robbed me of my youth. Well, that is a sacrifice that I have made, and Sigmar is welcome to it. But I’ll not send my sons to do the same!”
“That is the tradition of the Klausners,” Ivar reminded his master. “Back to the time of Helmuth, your family has ever sent its sons to serve among Sigmar’s witch finders. It is a long and noble legacy.”
Wilhelm Klausner strode toward the altar, lifting up the candlestick. “I am not concerned with the nobility of this house, or its legacy,” he told his servant. “My only concern is for the safety of this family.”
The old man strode past Ivar, through the open doorway that connected the tiny chapel to his own bedchamber.
The steward dutifully followed after his master.
“That also is my concern,” observed Ivar. His master’s chamber was opulently furnished, dominated by a gargantuan four-posted bed, its surface piled with pillows and heavy blankets of wool and ermine. A glass-faced curio cabinet loomed against one wall, nestled between a massive wardrobe of stained oak and the yawning face of a hearth. In the far corner, a writing table was set, beside it stood a large bookcase, its overburdened shelves sagging under the weight of dozens of leather-bound tomes. Ivar watched with a slight air of superiority as Wilhelm Klausner let his heavy cloak slip to the floor, the scrawny frame of the old man crawled into his waiting bed. When Wilhelm was fully situated, his servant stepped forward to remove the garment from the floor, draping it loosely over his arm.
“You have served my family well,” the withered man told Ivar. “And I have always valued your council.”
“Then listen to my words again, my lord,” Ivar said, punctuating them with a stab of his gloved finger. “There are some who will take your decision in this matter none too lightly. They will see this breaking with tradition as an ill omen, a sign that perhaps those black horrors you speak of may have warped your mind, caused a rot within your soul. Are you so certain that you are so free of enemies that you can allow such thoughts to linger within the temple district in Altdorf?”
“Let my enemies do their worst,” sneered the old man, puffing himself upright amidst his bedding. “Their yapping will avail them nothing! I still have some influence in Altdorf. My name is not unknown to old Volkmar, or my reputation.”
“I think that is a dangerous assumption to make.” Ivar’s voice d
rifted back into its cautious tone. “I served your father long before he returned to these lands, and I know how suspicious witch hunters are, seeing a heretic behind every door and an abomination of Chaos in every shadow. Trust not in the ties of old friendships and loyalties when such spectres are invoked.”
“And you would have me destroy my sons to allay the doubts of such verminous fear-mongers?” Wilhelm spat. He shook his head, his face twisted into a distasteful scowl.
“If these murders continue, you will have to do something,” confessed the steward. “Things cannot go on like this. When it was six or even seven, perhaps we might have been able to handle the matter more quietly. But now…” Ivar shook his head. “No, such a thing will have been noticed. And the eyes that are drawn to the district of Klausberg will not be those of your friends, my lord. Your enemies will seize upon these occurrences like starving wolves falling upon a scrap of mutton.”
Wilhelm Klausner looked away from his steward, gazing instead out of the window. He considered the cold darkness that clutched and pawed at the glass, the sombre testament of night’s black dominion across his lands. What things might even now be crawling under that shroud? What atrocities might they even now be plotting to inflict upon his domain?
“Ivar,” the patriarch’s voice sank to a lower, tremulous tone. “You must not let it come to that. All that I have done has been to draw my enemies away from his place, to protect my family and my people from the unholy things that would do them harm. We cannot fail in this or all has been for nothing!”
The steward strode towards the heavy outer door of the patriarch’s chamber. “Your enemies are already come to Klausberg,” Ivar told his master.
CHAPTER TWO
The day was nearly spent when the witch hunter and his henchman reached the village of Klausberg. It was a small settlement, located almost in the very centre of the rich farmlands that composed the district whose name the village bore and as such it held a greater importance than its small size would seem to indicate.
[Mathias Thulmann Page 3
