One of the first lessons Thulmann had learned from Frederick Greiber suddenly came to his mind. A witch hunter did not meet the works of Chaos with wizardry of his own. He did not challenge the Dark Gods with weapons as steeped in depravity and wickedness as they. No, a witch hunter’s weapons were courage and determination, to never allow fear and horror to take command of his heart, to never allow doubt and regret to weaken his resolve. He must trust completely and fully in Sigmar, armour himself in a shield of faith that would shine out into the darkness, that would challenge the terror of the night.
He must say, “I am a servant of Sigmar, and his judgement is upon you,” and know that the strength of their god would be within him at such times. He must have faith, a faith strong enough to banish all doubt.
“No,” the witch hunter snarled, lifting his sword again. “It is the grace of Sigmar that has brought me here. It is his determination that I shall be the one to visit his justice upon you, Erasmus Kleib, Butcher of Bechafen! And, though I perish in the doing of it, I shall see that you answer for your crimes!”
The sorcerer’s face swelled with wrath. “I see that I was mistaken,” he hissed in cold tones of subdued fury. He swept his arms wide, spreading his heavy crimson cloak about him. “You are an idiot after all. Perhaps I shall one day answer to your puny godling’s ineffectual concepts of justice, but not for some considerable time. There is much work that I have yet to complete for my own masters.” Erasmus Kleib looked at the shadows to either side of him. Thulmann could hear something moving in the shadow, the sound of claws scrabbling across rotten timber, the furtive patter of naked feet, low whispers of amusement rasping through inhuman jaws.
The witch hunter threw open his lantern to its full, illuminating the warehouse. He recoiled in disgust as he saw what the light revealed. Inhuman forms scuttled toward him from every side, shapes with crooked backs, slender limbs and long naked tails. They wore tunics of leather and loin wraps of filthy cloth, and their flesh was covered in a dingy brown fur where it was not marked by grey scars and crusty scabs.
The faces of the creatures were long and hound-like, protruding from beneath their leather helmets and cloth hoods. Beady red eyes gleamed from the faces of the Chaos-vermin, and massive incisors protruded from the tips of their muzzles.
Erasmus Kleib laughed as his inhuman allies scuttled forward to subdue the witch hunter. Thulmann could hear their chittering laughter as they gnashed their jaws and gestured with their rusty-edged weapons.
“Witch hunter! Witch hunter!” the monsters chanted in their squeaking voices. The sound of their naked feet became a dull tattoo upon the floor. “Witch hunter! Witch hunter!” they hissed as they stalked closer still, the reek of their mangy fur heavy in the air. “Witch hunter!” they laughed, the sharp report of their feet once again slapping against the floor.
Mathias Thulmann awoke with a start, hands flashing at once to the sword and pistol resting beside him on the bed. It took him only a moment to register his surroundings, to recall that he was not in Bechafen, but in Klausberg. He wriggled his body to free it of the bed clothes that had twisted about him like a cocoon during his restless slumber, then patted at his face with the edge of one of the blankets, wiping away the cold sweat.
Dreams and nightmares. However firm his faith, however devout and complete his conviction, Thulmann seldom escaped their grasp for very long. He was only surprised that it had been the shade of Erasmus Kleib that had haunted him this night.
He’d encountered things far fouler and more horrific even than his degenerate uncle and his loathsome allies, things that made even Kleib’s most heinous acts seem nothing more than the mischief of an unruly child.
Perhaps there was a reason behind the invasion of his nightmares by the dead sorcerer? There were some who said that dreams held portents of the future within them, if one but had the wit and wisdom to discern their meaning. Of course, such thought was well within the realm of astrologers, wizards and other persons of dubious morality and piety. Still, the witch hunter sometimes wondered if there might not be some truth in their beliefs for all their heresy. Were not dreams the method with which grim Morr communicated with his dour priesthood? And if Morr, the god of death, should deign to guide his servants in such a manner, who could say with certainty that mighty Sigmar, protector of man, might not use similar methods?
“Witch hunter!” came a muffled voice, accompanied by the sharp report of bare flesh striking against hard wood. Thulmann cast aside his ponderings as the sounds from his nightmare echoed through his room atop The Grey Crone. He rose swiftly from his bed, sword and pistol held in a firm grasp, and walked to the door before the person outside could knock once more.
“I’ve had men put to the question for a fortnight for disturbing me at such a Sigmar-forsaken hour!” Thulmann snapped as he threw the door open, frightening the colour from the already nervous Reikhertz. The innkeeper jumped back, crashing against the solid wooden wall of the hallway.
The witch hunter kept his angry glare fixed upon Reikhertz, his pistol held at the ready in his hand. “It is courting heresy to disturb the sleep of an ordained servant of Sigmar.” Thulmann paused as Reikhertz began to mumble unintelligibly. “Well, out with it man! What foolishness makes you court heresy before the cock has crowed!”
Reikhertz fought to compose himself, training his bulging eyes on the witch hunter. “Fo… forgive… the… the intrusion… I… I… I m-meant n-no offence, noble… noble…”
Thulmann rolled his eyes, lowering his pistol and stepping out into the corridor. “Despite the early hour, I begin to doubt if we will finish this conversation before the sun has again set.”
Like a mask, Thulmann discarded the anger he had assumed upon throwing open the door of his room. There was a time to intimidate commoners, to instil in them the proper deference and fear which his station demanded. But now was not one of them. Thulmann slipped into the quiet, concerned voice of a father confessor, his eyes gleaming now not with hostility, but a keen interest in what the innkeeper had to say.
“It is clear that something of importance has happened,” he told Reikhertz, his tone now friendly and calming. “I would hear whatever tidings you bear.”
Reikhertz swallowed hard, then nervously began to smooth the front of his woollen nightshirt. “Please, begging your pardon, sir,” the shivering innkeeper said. “But there has been another killing.”
Thulmann’s expression grew grave. He nodded his head toward Reikhertz. “Like the others?” was all the witch hunter said.
“Mangled and ripped apart,” the innkeeper confirmed. “Old Hans found him, returning from frog-catching out by the bog-ponds. He thinks it might have been Skimmel, one of the district’s cattle-herds.” Reikhertz looked down at the floor, fear creeping into his voice. “He can’t be certain though. There isn’t enough left to be sure.”
“How is Lord Klausner attending to the incident?” Thulmann asked.
“Hans came here straight away,” Reikhertz answered. “The Klausners haven’t been told yet. Not that they would do anything about it in any event,” the innkeeper added, spitting at the floor.
“Send him to the keep just the same,” Thulmann told Reikhertz. “If nothing else, I should like to see first-hand how Lord Klausner conducts his investigations into these killings. Then I may know better how not to conduct my own.” Thulmann paused for a moment, considering his next words. “Tell this Hans to be certain that Gregor Klausner is informed and that I would appreciate his assistance. His knowledge of this district could prove quite useful.”
Reikhertz bowed to the witch hunter. “Shall I have your horses saddled?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ll be only a few moments,” Thulmann sighed. “Breakfast will have to wait until I return. I expect you to see that it makes amends for my disturbed sleep.” The witch hunter dismissed the innkeeper with a gesture of his hand and Reikhertz hastened off down the hall. Thulmann turned and stalked toward the door that opened upon S
treng’s room.
“Streng!” he shouted, pounding on the closed portal. “Rouse yourself you filthy drunkard! The killer has struck again and we ride in five minutes!” Thulmann lingered long enough to hear the thump of a body striking the floor and the sharp squeal of young woman, followed upon by muttered oaths and curses in Streng’s sullen tones.
Gregor Klausner met Thulmann and the still surly Streng shortly after the witch hunter had begun his ride toward the keep. Thulmann was once again struck by the competence of the younger Klausner.
Despite his naturally suspicious nature, the Templar had to admit that there was quite a bit of merit in the young Gregor. Their conversation of the previous night had revealed to Thulmann that Gregor Klausner was the polar opposite of the brash and bullying Anton.
Gregor had an eye for detail, a genuine passion for knowledge and, more importantly, a very high degree of personal morality and honour. Many times, in explaining to Thulmann the events of the past weeks, the pent-up frustration at his personal inability to relieve the suffering of the district came to the fore, breaking through his otherwise steely composure.
There had been another moment when Thulmann had observed Gregor’s composure falter. When Reikhertz’s daughter had brought them ale and wine, a look that had passed between the two young people. Reikhertz had quickly ushered his daughter from the room, casting a venomous look at Gregor, even more hostile than the one with which he had favoured Streng and the plump town whore he had managed to dredge up while Thulmann was away at the keep. It had been a tense moment, and Thulmann wondered at its import.
Gregor favoured Reikhertz’s daughter, a situation which the innkeeper was perfectly willing to exploit in matters of protection, but also a situation which he did not condone. Suddenly Anton’s behaviour of the previous night could be viewed in a new light.
Had Thulmann intruded upon a random act of bullying and arrogance, or was there something more? Anton probably knew that his brother favoured the pretty Miranda. As the younger son of old Wilhelm Klausner, the witch hunter wondered just how much Anton might resent his situation and that of his older brother.
“If it was any colder I’d be pissing ice,” snarled Streng, clapping his gloved hands against his fur-covered shoulders.
Thulmann cast a withering glance at the grousing sell-sword. “We are about Sigmar’s business. Perhaps if you considered that, your faith might keep you warm.”
“I’d prefer a set of warm sheets and the body of a hot woman,” the bearded ruffian grumbled. Thulmann ignored his complaints and turned to face Gregor Klausner. The young lord was dressed in a heavy fur coat, his head encased within the bushy mass of a bear-skin hat cut in the Kislevite fashion. Thulmann noted that both a sword and a holstered pistol hung from Gregor’s belt. The witch hunter smiled. Gregor had his wits about him, even in such a lonely hour, preparing himself against not only the cold, but the unknown. There were many noblemen in Altdorf who would not have displayed such common sense and intelligence.
“This hollow that the frog-catcher described,” the witch hunter said. “I trust that you know where it is?”
Gregor extended his hand, pointing toward a series of distant wheat fields. “If we cut across those fields, we can come upon it from firm ground. The bog-ponds lie to the west of the woods, and south of it is an expanse of rough ground that some of the cattlemen use as pasture.”
The younger Klausner nodded at the witch hunter. “We can make better time going across the fields than using the road. Besides, that is the route which Anton and my father’s men will take.” Gregor’s hard features spread in a grin. “I rather imagine that you’d like a look at the body without my father looking over your shoulder.”
“I’ve made no mention of such intention,” the witch hunter told him, though there was no reproach in his tone. He motioned for Gregor to lead the way. “The fields, then?”
The noble rode off, Thulmann and Streng following close behind him. A sharp mind, that one, thought the witch hunter. He’d possibly have made a good witch hunter himself. Indeed, given his family legacy, Thulmann wondered why he hadn’t taken up such a vocation.
As they rode across the desolate fields of harvested grain, Thulmann reflected upon some of the things Gregor Klausner had told him the night before. Among the first of his revelations had been the fact that the current string of killings had not been the first to plague the district. There had been similar killings in the time of his grandfather, and his great grandfather, as any grey-hair in the town would relate in a subdued whisper if Thulmann cared to question them.
It was only by the tireless vigilance and selfless heroism of the Klausners that this horror had been driven back time and again and the lands protected from its marauding evil, or so the family tradition had it.
However, there was something more, something that disturbed even the most garrulous of the village elders. The deaths were different this time, bloodier and more savage than any of the previous ones. And it seemed that this nameless fiend was even more hungry for blood now than in the past, for all of the elders said that it had settled for far less death in their day.
Thulmann considered once more Wilhelm Klausner’s insistence that the thing preying upon his district was merely an extremely clever wolf. In light of the grim tradition held by the villagers, Thulmann did not see how Klausner could honestly believe in such a theory. A wolf that had preyed upon the same district for over a hundred years? Working its mayhem in brief orgies of bloodlust and then slinking back into the wilds to wait decades before striking once again?
The old man might have been organising wolf hunts, but he could not honestly believe that what was haunting his lands was any normal animal. The old patriarch must surely be lying. Perhaps the old landholder was fearful of the scandal that might arise should knowledge of his family’s grim curse become widespread. Perhaps he merely refused to believe that he might be unable to stop whatever fiend was behind his district’s misfortune, and so refused to see his unknown enemy as a possibly supernatural being.
No, Wilhelm Klausner had been a witch hunter himself, he would be beyond such foolishness. He would have seen for himself the power of the Dark, seen with his own eyes some of the nameless things that haunt the night.
Thulmann wondered just who Wilhelm Klausner was trying to deceive about the nature of these tragedies. After a long career confronting such horrors, retiring to the comfort of his ancestral home, perhaps Klausner was no longer able to accept such manifestations of evil.
Perhaps he needed to cling to some belief that having survived his years as a Templar of Sigmar, he had likewise escaped from the dread clutch of Old Night. Perhaps he could not cope with the idea that such evil might stalk him again, rearing its foul visage within his own lands.
Maybe he clung to the notion that his enemy was a normal, clean animal, not some dread beast touched by the corrupting hand of Chaos, or some daemon emissary of the beyond. The one Wilhelm Klausner was trying to convince might just be the old patriarch himself.
CHAPTER FIVE
The cawing of crows announced that they had arrived at their destination. The three men dismounted on the very edge of the last of the fields, just where the level ground dripped away into a small wooded trench. As the witch hunter and his companions descended the dew-slicked slope, the stench of blood made itself known to them.
Thulmann could see a shape strewn about a stretch of open ground beneath the twisted, gnarled boughs of the hollow, alive with cawing, hopping scavenger birds. Several of them cocked their heads as the men advanced, favouring them with irritated looks. Streng set up a loud yell that caused the scavengers to take wing and scatter into the morning mist.
“Hopefully they haven’t made too much of a mess,” Thulmann commented, striding ahead of his companions. The object that had so fascinated the crows had indeed once been a man, though the frog-catcher could easily be forgiven his inability to render the corpse a positive identity.
The a
rms and legs were the only parts that looked to be unmarked. The chest was a gaping wound, looking as if it had been torn open by a bear. The head was in even worse shape, little more than a mass of peeled meat resting atop the corpse’s shoulders.
“Pretty sight, that one,” observed Streng, a bit of colour showing beneath his dirty beard. The witch hunter agreed. Death, horrible and unnatural, was part and parcel of the witch hunter’s trade, yet seldom had Thulmann seen evidence of such unholy brutality. Gregor Klausner, unused to such sights grew pale, lifting a gloved hand to his mouth as the bile churned in his stomach.
Streng began to circle the body as Thulmann strode towards it. The mercenary stared at the ground, cursing colourfully when he found no sign of tracks. “Ground’s clean, Mathias,” he reported. “Not a sniff of either a paw, claw or shoe.”
Thulmann bent over the corpse, casting a practiced eye upon the body. He glanced up, staring at Gregor Klausner. “Rather savage work, even for a wolf, don’t you think?”
“My father is convinced that these deaths are the work of some beast,” Gregor replied, speaking through his hand. He risked removing it and gestured at the mutilated body. “Surely only a beast would be capable of such a frenzied act.”
“You’ve never seen a norse berserk,” Thulmann said. “But this is not the work of some frenzied, maniacal bloodlust.” The witch hunter’s voice grew as cold as the chill morning air. “No, this was a very deliberate act. Deliberate and unholy. Evil has come to Klausberg, and it is fouler than any I have ever come upon.”
Gregor Klausner watched intently as Thulmann picked a long stick from the ground and began to indicate marks upon the savaged body. The noble felt his breakfast begin to churn in protest. Streng noticed the young man’s discomfort and chuckled.
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