“I suppose that you could do better?” he challenged. He cringed back as the dry, rasping laughter of his ally echoed through the ruin.
“I can and I shall, little man,” the shadow told him. Carandini could feel the air grow cold, the chill touch of the tomb caress his face as his ally began to call the foulest of powers into his body. The necromancer fancied he could see a ghostly green glow burning from the eyes of his confederate. The necromancer watched in rapt fascination, promising himself that one day such power would be his.
“It is done,” the shadow spoke as the glow began to fade and the temperature began to creep back.
“What is done?” Carandini asked, a keen quality to his voice.
“What needed doing,” the shadow declared. “I have called upon my own resources to salvage this situation from your bungling. The witch hunter will never reach the keep alive. My hounds shall see to it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
From an overlooking rise, the witch hunter watched as the flames devoured the last of the cottage, his keen gaze alert for any sign of unnatural movement among the rubble. He’d always read that creatures such as those that had attacked him in the house were amongst the lowest and simplest of the undead, and that destruction by fire would be sufficient to end their unholy existence. But Thulmann was a cautious man and waited until the smoke began to lessen. Satisfied, he holstered the pistol he had been reloading and turned toward his companions.
“Shall we withdraw and inform his lordship that his district is now lessened by one farm?” he asked Gregor. The young noble’s face was grim, his eyes filled with a distant melancholy. Thulmann could imagine the man’s thoughts: one’s first encounter with the restless dead was always a profoundly disturbing experience. He guessed that Gregor was at that point where he was questioning the power and wisdom of Sigmar to allow such profane things to walk the earth. Thulmann himself had faced a similar dilemma when he had first seen the power of the necromancer’s arts in a crypt beneath Wolfenburg over a decade ago.
“Lead the way, Streng,” Thulmann told his henchman. “I want to be back at the keep in time for his lordship to invite us to dinner.”
Streng grinned at the comment, urging his steed to turn around and gallop off in the direction of Klausner Keep. Gregor extracted himself somewhat from his brooding thoughts and followed Streng’s lead.
Thulmann studied the man for a moment. In the face of such unholy visitations, it was all very well to question the power of the gods, the witch hunter thought, so long as one drew the correct conclusion. Anything else was the first step on the path of heresy. Thulmann hoped that Gregor would reach the right conclusion.
They were riding along a path that wound through a tangle of woods that bordered on the area where Thulmann had found the ruined remains of Emil Gundolf the forester. That fact, and the growing darkness, made the witch hunter’s skin crawl with a sense of unease. There was no doubt it was a cheerless, friendless region.
The moon overhead bathed everything in a disconcerting grey illumination, fighting a hopeless struggle against the ascendant shadows. Even the crickets had fallen quiet and the only sound that accompanied the clop of horse hooves was the rustle of wind-blown leaves blowing between the trees. Thulmann patted the neck of his white steed as the horse gave a nicker of fright.
Ahead of him, he saw Streng’s steed come to an abrupt stop. The mercenary swatted the animal with the end of the reins, but the horse remained resolute, whickering in protest as Streng tried to urge it forward. “Something’s gotten into him,” Streng said, looking back to his master.
Thulmann did not reply, instead looking past the mercenary at the gaunt shape that had ghosted out of the trees and was now standing in the centre of the road, as if in challenge. It was large, the size of a yearling calf, its shoulders broad, its frame squat.
Despite the encroaching gloom, Thulmann could make out its lupine outline, could catch the gleam of bared fangs. However, more hideous than the wolf-like creature was the stink that emanated from it, a foul and carrion reek.
The eyes of the creature regarding them glowed with an unholy light, like glittering pools of green pus.
“What in the name of Holy Sigmar?” marvelled Gregor. Thulmann paid him no mind, his head snapping around as he heard a twig snap among the trees. Three more pairs of glowing eyes stared back at him from the darkness. A swift glance to the other side of the road showed four more creatures creeping between the trunks.
“Ride for your life!” the witch hunter shouted, digging his spurs into his mount’s flanks. His charger thundered down the path, smashing into the snarling creature that stood in its way. Thulmann heard the snap of breaking bones as his steed rode down the wolf, but did not hear the creature give voice to any sound of pain.
He glanced back to observe Streng and Gregor riding hard after him, the broken remains of the first wolf snapping at them as they passed, pulling itself after them with its front legs, leaving its broken midsection to drag along the ground behind it. More successful were the half score of sleek shadows that erupted from the trees, loping after them with swift, tireless bounds.
Thulmann ripped one of his pistols from its holster and fired back into the pursuing pack. The bullet caught one of the wolves dead on, throwing its body upwards. It was a killing shot, but the witch hunter did not expect the eerie blue flame that erupted from the wound, nor the long drawn-out howl that emanated not from the wolf, but from the wisp of grey smoke that spilled from its injury.
The other members of the pack paid no attention to their companion’s demise, loping after the three men without breaking their stride.
“By all the hells!” shouted Gregor. “What are they?”
“More creatures of the necromancer!” Thulmann called back. “We must outrun them,” he added. “I only have two silver bullets, and I’ve used one already.”
The riders continued to barrel down the path, their hellish pursuers close behind them. The heavy breath of the terrified horses resounded in Thulmann’s ears, but from the sleek shadows loping after them there came not the slightest sound. He turned his head to check their position, horrified to find that the pack was only about a horse length from catching up to them. And they were gaining. He looked ahead, spying a fork in the road.
“The left path!” shouted Gregor. “If we can just keep ahead of them, a little longer we can reach the keep!”
Almost in unison, the men turned their animals toward the left. The sudden manoeuvre spoiled the leap of one of the wolves as it pounced for Thulmann’s steed. The black-furred brute struck the ground, rolling hard. Yet the creature was hardly phased by its ineffective leap, gaining its feet almost at once and loping after the rest of the pack.
They were now travelling through the relatively healthy trees that bordered on the region afflicted by what Gregor had called “the blight”. The trees here were older, their trunks gnarled, their branches thick. They cast their shadows upon the road, covering it with darkness.
The fleeing riders had to trust to the instinct of their steeds, and the straightness of the path. Thulmann prayed that no branches had fallen since the road was last cleared, so nothing might lie upon the path to trip their steeds. If any of the horses should stumble at such breakneck speed, their rider could be killed by the fall.
The horses were gasping now, their strength and vitality waning from the long chase and the terror the wolves evoked in their hearts. They could not sustain the pace much longer. Behind them, the tireless wolves maintained their unnatural, unwavering stride. Thulmann drew his second pistol, firing another bullet into the pack. There was a flash of blue fire, another long, unearthly howl. At least there would be one less when the pack caught them.
A new sound suddenly intruded upon the nightmarish chase, the soft babble of flowing water. Thulmann recalled the road that led to Klausner Keep. A small stream wound through the diseased woods; the sound had to be coming from that. If so, they could only be five or ten minu
tes’ ride from the safety of the fortress. Could the horses maintain such a cruel pace for that long?
“By the light and glory of Holy Sigmar, bane of the unlight, I abjure you!” Thulmann shouted back at the pack.
It was an incantation from the rites of exorcism as practised by some of the Templars of his order. Of course, there were all manner of preparations and paraphernalia that were needed to complement the ritual, things the current situation did not really lend itself to. Still, perhaps it might cause the unholy things to flinch back, recoil in fear for a moment. Every last second might save them now.
The wolves did arrest their pursuit, the sleek shadows coming to a stop in the middle of the path. For the space of a heartbeat, it seemed that the simple prayer had broken the strength and will of the unholy pack. But the illusion swiftly faded, for as the next second came to pass feral snarls and wheezing growls hissed from the gaunt frames. With a redoubled savagery, the undead wolves bounded towards their prey once more.
“Nice going,” Streng commented, rolling his eyes. “Now they are mad.”
“They were already going to kill us,” Thulmann retorted, trying to urge his tiring horse to greater effort. The small wooden bridge that spanned the stream was ahead of them, the witch hunter could see its black mass separating the gleam of the slow-moving water. “We are close now!” he shouted.
The three men thundered across the span, the hooves of their animals flying across the wooden surface. They had no intention of stopping on the other side, but a startling occurrence caused them to pull their steeds to a halt.
An icy chill seemed to surround them, and a peculiar odour, like singed hair. There was a bright flash of light and a sound not unlike the crack of lightning. An agonised howl punctuated these events, and when Thulmann looked back towards the bridge, he could see a shape lying upon it, grey smoke rising from its still form. The rest of the wolf pack was glaring at him with their glowing green eyes as they paced back and forth along the far bank.
Thulmann dismounted, pulling his sword from its scabbard.
“You sure that’s wise?” Streng called to him as Thulmann strode toward the bridge. The witch hunter did not hear him, too perplexed by what he had just felt and witnessed.
It was lighter here, a break in the trees allowing the light of Mannslieb to illuminate the scene. Now the witch hunter could see the full horror of the things that had stalked them through the woods. They were monstrously oversized wolves, almost as large as the extinct great Sylvanian wolf, and certainly more vile. Their flesh clung to their bones like wet paper, their pelts were mangy, the black fur missing in clumps and patches. The patches of naked flesh were clearly necrotic, the pale bodies of maggots crawling about in the meat.
The faces of the animals were likewise decayed, their muzzles bare and skeletal. Their gleaming eyes were utterly ethereal;
Thulmann could detect no sign of any physical eye behind their fire. The monstrous hounds glared back at their observer, snarling and growling in frustrated bloodlust.
The witch hunter turned his attention to the wolf lying on the bridge. It was rapidly decaying, even as he watched it, the skin peeling away and the fur withering. It was as if all the years the ghoulish creature had cheated its grave had been thrust upon it. Soon, there was only a pile of bone, and even these began to crumble in upon themselves.
“Truly you are blessed by Sigmar,” Gregor said, his voice subdued by the awe of their miraculous escape. The witch hunter shook his head.
“No, this is not the work of Sigmar,” he said, a haunted quality to his words. “I have heard old folk fables that claim the restless dead cannot cross moving water. But never have I read or encountered anything that would give such legends credence.”
“Well, there is your proof,” said Gregor, pointing at the dwindling remains on the bridge.
Thulmann again shook his head.
“No, there is something fouler than legend at work here,” he declared. “Can you not feel it all around you? A crawling in your skin, a greasiness in your breath, the chill of the crypt slithering across your bones? It is the stink of decay and corruption.” Thulmann could see by Gregor’s reaction to his words that the young noble had indeed felt the same sickening sensations.
“What does it mean?” he asked in a sombre tone.
Thulmann looked back across the stream at the pacing pack. “The same force that gave those obscenities their mockeries of life,” he said. “I have seen abominations destroyed in just such a manner, in the madhouse of Enoch Silber’s unholy experiments. A necromancer takes pains to preserve himself from that which he calls from the tomb.”
Gregor Klausner recoiled from the witch hunter’s statement. “But that can’t be,” he protested.
“It can and it is,” stated Thulmann flatly, his eyes cold and stern as they looked into Gregor’s. Both men turned as Streng rode towards them.
“Seems like that lot want another chance at us,” the mercenary swore. He hefted his crossbow, grinning at the witch hunter. “Think this would do any good?” he asked.
“Not any appreciable damage,” Thulmann told him. “Holes punched through dead flesh have little effect. But I have something here that they won’t shrug off so easily” Thulmann removed his powder flask from his belt and a silver ball from his cartridge case. The pack stopped their pacing, fixing him with their luminous gaze. The creatures gave voice to a final snarl of anger then fell back, slinking into the night.
“Our friend has quite a mixed bag of tricks,” commented Streng as he watched the wolves disappear into the darkness. Thulmann turned his own gaze back upon the stream.
“Yes,” he said in a low whisper. “A mixed bag indeed.”
Mathias Thulmann threw open the front door of the main hall of the keep. His cloak was torn, his clothes stained by soot and sweat, his boots covered in mud and the greasy pseudo-blood of the zombies he had battled at the Brustholz farm. However, it was the look of cold, cruel menace upon his face that caused the servant who had met his party at the door to race away in search of Ivar Kohl. .
Thulmann ignored the departed servant’s admonishment to await the steward, and began to climb the stairway at the side of the hall. Gregor Klausner followed after the witch hunter. Streng strode toward the blazing fire set beneath the hanging portraits of the Klausner patriarchs, turning when he reached the hearth, trying to warm the numbness from his backside.
“What the devil do you think you are doing?” cried out Ivar Kohl’s heavy voice. The steward stood below, in the main hall, glaring up at the witch hunter as he ascended the steps.
“I am going to have words with your master,” Thulmann snapped, not bothering to look at the irate steward. Kohl muttered a colourful curse and hurried up the steps in pursuit.
“His lordship is sleeping,” the steward told the witch hunter.
“In that case, I will wake him,” Thulmann informed the man, not looking back. Ivar Kohl’s face reddened and he flung himself up the stairs ahead of the two men.
“I said that his lordship is not to be disturbed,” he repeated, extending his arm to block Thulmann’s progress.
The witch hunter glared at Kohl. “Remove your arm or I will have my man break it,” he snapped. Stunned by the violence in Thulmann’s voice, Kohl retreated, his continued protests sputtering as they tried to form on his lips.
“Perhaps I should speak with him,” Gregor said when they stood outside the door of his father’s room.
“No,” Thulmann told the young noble. “It is time your father heard the situation laid out before him in no uncertain terms. He will face reality this time, and Sigmar take his precious ego!” The witch hunter knocked once upon the heavy wooden portal, then flung it open.
Wilhelm Klausner was resting in his bed, his frail body nestled amidst its mound of pillows and furs. His wife sat beside him on the edge of the mattress, feeding her husband a bowl of medicinal broth. Both of them gave a start when the witch hunter strode into the ch
amber.
“What is the meaning of this!” rasped Wilhelm, raising his body from the bed. “How dare you!”
“He forced his way past me,” explained Kohl, squeezing his way into the room behind Gregor. “I’ll have him removed at once.”
“Think about leaving this room, and I’ll snap you in chains,” snapped Thulmann. “I’ve had enough of your plotting and scheming. Any more of it and I will put you somewhere where you can’t interfere.”
“You arrogant dog!” hissed Wilhelm, his wrinkled face contorting into a mask of fury. “I’ll have you know I’ve made them aware of your heavy-handed posturing in Altdorf.” He wagged his emaciated finger at the witch hunter. “I am the authority here, and when my messenger returns from seeing the Grand Theogonist, you will receive a most forceful reminder of that fact!”
“Father, please,” protested Gregor, stepping towards the bed.
Wilhelm cast a pained look of disappointment and contempt at the young man.
“I’d not have expected my own son to side against me,” he stated. His wife set a restraining hand on her husband’s shoulder, but he shook it off. “I expect disappointment from Anton, but this treachery hurts me as keenly as the knife stabbed into my heart.”
“At least Gregor is doing something to put a stop to the horror that is at large in your district,” Thulmann informed the sickly lord. He tossed a filthy, rotting object upon the bed. It was the bloated, purple-hued hand of one of the Brustholz zombies. Wilhelm recoiled, staring in horror at the loathsome object.
“I have been attacked twice this night by things that by all rights should have been quiet in their graves,” stated the witch hunter. The massacre at the Brustholz farm was a trap, a cunning trap laid for me by the insidious fiend who has conceived these atrocities. No sooner had your son and myself arrived than the slaughtered family took to their feet in a ghastly parody of life, motivated by the murderous will of their killer. We were attacked again on the road here, hunted by wolves, your lordship. Wolves that feel no pain and have bale-fires instead of eyes.”
[Mathias Thulmann Page 15
