[Mathias Thulmann

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

  The village served as a staging area for the food caravans that transported the harvests of the district northward to the ever hungry inhabitants of Wurtbad. At harvest time, the sleepy village would become a hub of activity, filled to bursting point with merchants and farmers, huntsmen and farriers, each man trying to outwit the other as they sought to haggle their wares or secure goods that could be transported the long distance to Wurtbad and still earn a profit. The sounds of drinking and carousing would rise from the village’s single tavern long into the night as all the peasant farmers and hunters tried their best to spend the money they had spent a year earning upon long-denied revelry.

  No such sounds emanated from the tavern this day, as the lowering sun cast a burnt orange glow upon the plaster and timber walls that lined the village’s narrow streets. Indeed, save for the grunting of pigs and the cackle of chickens, the lanes were utterly silent, the furtive and hastily withdrawn faces that occasionally appeared at the windows of some of the homes serving as the only sign of the villagers themselves.

  The two horsemen who navigated the dirty lane that wound its way through the small huddle of buildings proceeded at a wary canter, hands resting against the grip of sword or pistol. If trouble was to manifest itself upon these deserted streets, it would not find these men unprepared.

  “As barren as the Count of Stirland’s barracks when the gold ran out,” observed the rearmost of the two riders. Streng cast a look over his shoulder, grimacing as he saw another face slip back behind a pair of shutters.

  “It would appear that Brother Zerndorff’s concerns are justified,” commented his companion. Mathias Thulmann did not look over at his henchman as he spoke, but kept his eyes focused upon the road ahead. He was less unnerved than his mercenary companion by the air of hostility and fear which surrounded them as they passed each dwelling, but he had learned over the course of his career never to completely ignore attitudes of ill will. “There is most certainly an aura of fear hanging about this place, more than might be occasioned by a pack of wolves or a band of goblins.”

  “Yes,” snorted Streng, spitting a glob of phlegm into the dust. “You’d find a more cheerful welcome in the Chaos Wastes.” The mercenary looked over as another set of shutters slammed shut behind them. “This lot are jumping at their own shadows.” Streng paused, his leer spreading, a glint appearing in his eyes. “There is a fair bit of money to be made here, Mathias.”

  The witch hunter favoured his underling with a look of contempt. “We’re here to help these people, liberate them from whatever unholy power is at work here, not to fleece them like a couple of Marienburg peddlers!” he snapped, voice laden with disgust.

  “All I’m saying is that we might help allay their fears by finding a few witches straight away. A bit of burning would do this town some good,” the henchman persisted.

  “Keep that larcenous tongue quiet, Streng,” Thulmann warned. “Or you might discover that your services are not irreplaceable.”

  The bearded mercenary sucked at his teeth as he digested Thulmann’s reprimand.

  Klausberg’s inn loomed ahead at the end of the road upon which they now travelled. The building was surrounded by a low wall of stone, and the courtyard beyond was paved, a small fountain bubbling at its centre.

  Thulmann considered the mouldy stone cherub rising above the pool, spitting an endless stream of water from its bulging cheeks. The witch hunter was not unfamiliar with the quality of worldly things and as his practiced eye considered the sculpture, he found himself impressed by the level of skill and artistry that had gone into it. He turned the same appraising gaze upon the facade of the inn itself, noting the quality of its construction.

  Clearly Klausberg had been quite prosperous in better times. However, a chill crept down Thulmann’s spine as he took note of the sign swaying from the post above the door of the establishment. In worn, faded characters it bore the name “The Grey Crone” and beneath the crude Reikspiel letters was the image of an old woman, her body bent and twisted by the years.

  The witch hunter’s thoughts drifted back to Wurtbad and the destruction of the hag Chanta Favna. He made the sign of the hammer, knocking his palm against his saddle to ward away any ill omen.

  After waiting for a moment for any sign that a stable boy might scurry out from the large stables attached to one side of the inn, the witch hunter dismounted. Streng followed his master’s lead, dropping from his own horse with a grunt. Thulmann handed his underling the reins of his steed.

  “The service appears a bit lacking,” he observed. “Take the horses into the stables. I’ll be informing the landlord of that sorry fact.”

  The witch hunter strode across the courtyard, his steely stare watching the windows of the inn for any sign of the furtive movement that had shadowed their progress through the village. He paused upon reaching the heavy oak door, banging his gloved hand against the portal. Not waiting for any response, Thulmann proceeded into The Grey Crone.

  The common room that dominated the first floor of the inn was spacious, a cluster of tables strewn about its vastness, a long oak-topped bar running along one wall. Several small groups of peasant farmers were scattered about the tables, nursing steins of beer and jacks of ale.

  The men looked up from their hushed, subdued conversations to regard the newcomer, their eyes at once narrowing with suspicion as they failed to recognise Thulmann for one of their own. The witch hunter returned their stares with an expressionless mask, making his way toward the bar. He took especial note of the bunches of garlic and daemonroot that had been nailed to the walls and above the doors and windows, their pungent reek overcoming even the smell of alcohol within the hall.

  Thulmann gripped the counter, noting for a moment the age of the wood beneath his fingers, then glanced back at the gawking inhabitants of the inn. Their hushed conversations had died away entirely now, all eyes locked on the scarlet and black-clad stranger.

  Presently, the landlord emerged from a little door set behind the bar. He was a short man, hair turning to grey, with large expressive eyes and a cheerful demeanour despite the gloom tugging at his features. As he saw the stranger waiting at his counter, however, a bit of the cheer drained out of him, replaced with an air of severity. He ceased wiping out the metal stein he was holding, setting both vessel and rag upon the bar.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting a drink?” the innkeeper asked, his words clipped and his tone surly.

  The witch hunter favoured the little man with his most venomous smile, pleased to see some of the anger give way to fear as the innkeeper withered before his gaze. “If you cannot show your betters deference, I suggest you at least remember to show them respect.”

  He turned his stern gaze to encompass the rest of the hall. “I am Mathias Thulmann, Knight Templar of Most Holy Sigmar, duly ordained witch finder and protector of the faith.” The hostile, sullen faces of the inhabitants of the inn remained the same.

  “Aye, we know what you are,” confided the innkeeper. “But don’t expect a witch hunter to find any store of love here.” The innkeeper filled a stein, setting the beer before Thulmann. “I’ll serve you, as that is my duty, but don’t expect anything more. Not here. Not in Klausberg.”

  Thulmann regarded the pop-eyed man, studying the mixture of fear and hostility he found in those eyes. The innkeeper looked away, rubbing at some invisible stain.

  “And why should a witch hunter find cold welcome in Klaus-berg?” Thulmann voiced his demand in a loud, cold voice, causing many of the gawkers to suddenly remember their own drinks. “Is this some nest of heathens and heretics that the servants of Sig-mar are treated so?”

  “No,” the innkeeper replied, shaking his head, a touch of shame in his words as Thulmann cast suspicion on the man’s loyalty to his god. “But there is something, some terrible thing that is killing folks here. And them Klausners,” the man paused, looking in the direction in which the Klausner Keep would lie, “they do nothing to protect us.”


  “Wolf hunts is what they give us,” scoffed one of the farmers. “Beating forest and field to drive out whatever starveling mongrels hiding there. As if any wolf were the cause of our troubles.”

  “What makes you so certain that it isn’t a wolf?” Thulmann asked.

  “Ever hear tell of any natural wolf sneaking into a man’s home, snatching him from his bed and all the while, there beside him his wife lies sleeping?” countered Reikhertz. “If it’s a wolf, then it’s no such wolf as should be natural, but some filthy thing of the Powers!” The man rapped his knuckles on the countertop as he made mention of the Dark Gods, hoping to ward away any ill luck that might draw their attention.

  “Them Klausners know it too,” commented a straw-haired farmer, his face a mask of dirt. “They know it and they’re afraid, cringing behind their stone walls when night falls, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves!”

  “Fine lot of witch hunters they be,” sneered another of the farmers, spitting at the floor. His bravado died however as Thulmann looked in his direction, and the man wilted back into his seat.

  Thulmann turned his attention back to the innkeeper, intending to question him further as to why the villagers felt their lord was doing nothing to end their ordeal, but was interrupted by the opening of tire inn’s door. He watched as three men entered the beer hall.

  It was obvious at once that they were distinctly apart from the modest, even shabbily, dressed villagers. Each man sported a leather tunic, breeches and high leather boots that reached to their knees. Each of the men also wore a sword sheathed at his side. The foremost of the men swaggered into the inn, the others following after his lead.

  The leader of these newcomers was young, his hair flowing about his head in a primped and pampered mane of pale blond. His features were harsh, his squared jaw set in a look of arrogance and disdain. As he strode into the inn, his head brushed against one of the dangling clusters of garlic cloves. The man spun about angrily, his gloved hand clutching at the bundle of herbs as if it was the throat of an enemy.

  “Fools! Idiots!” the man snarled, his words stretched by a slight lisp. The farmers cringed back in their chairs as the man glared at them. “Heathen nonsense! Yet you cling to such stupidity like frightened children! As if a bunch of foul-smelling weeds had any power against Old Night!”

  He hurled the garlic across the room with a grunt of disgust, then looked away from the cowed denizens of the tavern, casting a curious glance over Thulmann as the witch hunter leaned against the counter. He did not voice his curiosity, however, but looked past the witch hunter, favouring the innkeeper with an unpleasant smile.

  “And how is Miranda this day, Reikhertz?” the man asked. He glanced about the room. “I can’t see her about. I do trust that she has not taken ill?” The mocking smile twisted a bit more.

  “Not at all, m’lord,” stammered Reikhertz.

  “Then go and fetch her,” the young man said, his words both a warning and a command. “The sight of her pretty face… will make that pig’s water you peddle a bit more pleasing to me.”

  “Your brother won’t favour you causing any mischief, Anton,” protested the innkeeper.

  “Ah, yes, my brother Gregor,” although his tone did not change, a subtle suggestion of menace exuded from the young man at the mention of his brother. “Did he perhaps offer you some special service? Perhaps he offered to protect your charming daughter?” Reikhertz licked his lips nervously as Anton spoke his words. “As if it was me you need protecting from! You should thank all the gods that a Klausner should so much as look at that little cur you sired!”

  “But your brother…” persisted the innkeeper, his voice pleading. Anton Klausner slammed his fist against the counter.

  “My brother is not here!” he hissed. “Now fetch that bitch or I’ll do it myself!”

  “Perhaps the young woman does not favour your company,” a silky voice intruded. Anton Klausner spun around, hand clenched into a fist, glaring at the speaker. Thulmann faced the belligerent youth with a condescending smile. “If you would learn some manners, you might find the young lady a bit more agreeable.”

  “Perhaps I’ll teach you a few,” Anton’s voice dripped with hostility. He looked over at his two companions, watching as each of the men began to move to place themselves at the witch hunter’s back, then favoured Thulmann with his snide grin. “But first I think I’ll teach you to mind your own business.”

  Anton aimed a kick at the witch hunter’s groin, surprised when the older man anticipated the low blow, stooping and catching his foot in his hands. Thulmann straightened up, tipping Anton Klausner to the floor as he did so. The bully’s two companions had been taken by surprise as well and moved to attack the witch hunter from behind when the solid wooden seat of a stool crashed into the face of one of them. The man dropped to the floor, a senseless bleeding heap. Streng swung the battered remains of the stool at the other ruffian, causing the man to retreat back toward the wall.

  “Seems to me like this is more my idea of entertainment than yours, Mathias,” laughed Streng. The witch hunter glanced over at his henchman.

  “I think I was rather generous, leaving two of them for you,” the witch hunter looked down at Anton Klausner as the young man began to rise, one hand closed about the hilt of his sword. The weapon froze after it had been drawn only a few inches, its owner staring into the cavernous barrel of one of Thulmann’s pistols.

  “I am Mathias Thulmann, witch finder,” he informed the subdued rouge. “I have been sent here by Altdorf to investigate the sinister affliction that has been plaguing this district.” Thulmann’s silky voice dropped into a threatening tone. “So you see, this district and what happens here are very much my business.” He motioned for Anton Klausner to stand. The subdued noble glared sullenly at the witch hunter.

  “Collect your friend and get out,” Thulmann told him, gesturing with his pistol to the insensible heap lying on the floor. “And inform your father that I will be paying him a visit shortly.”

  The witch hunter watched as the browbeaten bully and his crony pulled their companion off the floor and withdrew from the tavern with their burden. When the door closed behind them, the witch hunter reholstered his pistol. The tables broke out into conversation once more, this time louder and more animated as the farmers discussed the unique and exciting scene they had witnessed. Thulmann turned around as a small glass was set upon the counter near him.

  “Thank you,” Reikhertz told him. “Sigmar’s grace be upon you.” Thulmann considered the small glass of schnapps, then gestured at the bottles of wine lined against the wall behind the bar. The innkeeper hastened to meet the witch hunter’s wishes. “That Anton is a bad one, worst of a rotten lot if you ask me,” he said as he returned with Thulmann’s wine.

  “I shall be seeing that for myself,” the witch hunter informed him as he sipped at his wine. “In the meantime, I need your best room for myself. You will also make provision for my man here, be it a corner of your common room or a loft in your stable. I’ll be dining with the Klausners this evening, so there will be no need for your cook to prepare a good meal. I’ll also desire to speak with you when I return, so keep yourself available.”

  Reikhertz beamed at the witch hunter. “Everything will be as you wish. Anything at all that I can do, you have but to ask it.” Thulmann finished his wine and handed the glass back to the grateful innkeeper. He strode away from the counter, noting the admiring looks of the farmers.

  “Thank Sigmar you’ve come,” one of them said. “Perhaps now there will be an end to these murders.” His declaration caused the rest of the crowd to break into a murmur of agreement and hope. Thulmann walked toward Streng. The bearded mercenary grinned back at him.

  “Seems you’ve won quite a following,” Streng commented. Thulmann nodded in agreement as another voice rose up from the crowd praising his arrival.

  “Indeed, that ugly little incident may prove beneficial,” he observed. “How beneficial I
won’t know until I’ve spoken with that young rake’s father. Still, the good will of these people is certain to be of some help.” Thulmann looked back at the farmers, toasting his health and boasting of the now swift and certain destruction of the fiend that had been preying upon them. “Besides, these people could use a little hope in their lives.” He cast a warning look at his henchman. “Try to control some of your excesses,” he told the professional torturer.

  The witch hunter looked over at Reikhertz as the innkeeper served another round of drinks to one of the tables. “Also, the innkeeper has a daughter. Keep your hands off her.”

  The mercenary gasped with feigned injury. “Don’t worry, Mathias, these hands don’t go nowhere they haven’t been invited first.” Thulmann’s shook his head.

  “Someday” he said, “I hope to find some scrap of virtue in that black pit that acts as your soul.”

  “If it comes in a bottle, then someday you probably will,” laughed Streng, walking toward the nearest table and snapping his fingers to gain the innkeeper’s attention. Thulmann shook his head and strode out into the darkening streets.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Klausner Keep was a massive structure looming atop a small hill some distance from the village. The keep was surrounded by unspoilt wilderness, massive trees of incalculable age surrounding it on every side, a swift flowing stream of icy water running about the perimeter of the forest from which the keep rose like an island upon the sea. As the shadows of the trees enveloped his steed, Thulmann could barely discern the twinkling lights emanating from the narrow windows of the keep. The fading gleam of the village had long since been lost.

  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.