“Filthy leech!” he snapped. “You’ve had enough of my blood this morning, you’ll get no more.” He swung his attention to the doktor who had yet to speak. He was older than either of the others, his head bereft of hair, his garments simple and devoid of ornamentation. Doktor Stuber maintained a neurotic fastidiousness, keeping his entire body clean-shaven in order to provide no breeding ground for lice and fleas, drinking vinegar every morning in order to thin his blood and prevent it from overwhelming his heart. Popular legend had it that Stuber would burn his clothing after wear, refused to eat any meat unless he inspected the animal before it was slaughtered, and would boil his hands after touching another person to remove any taint of disease. Even now, Stuber was wringing his slender hands before him, as though trying to scrape the contagion from his fingers. Baron von Gotz regretted allowing the physician to speak as soon as his pallid mouth snapped open.
“They could be communal sores,” Stuber stated, with the self-righteousness of a street-corner prophet. “I have warned his excellency against dallying among the rabble. They are a breeding ground for all sorts of filth.” Stuber visibly shuddered.
“I suggest your attitude become more helpful, herr doktor,” the baron warned, as Stuber’s pale features faded to grey. “I have plenty of room in the dungeons for malcontents. It is wrong to keep a hound in the kennel, he must be free to prowl and hunt.” The fat man’s face broadened into a vain smirk. “After all, even a fine woman like the baroness is not able to fulfil a robust appetite like mine.”
In truth, Friedo’s wife had not allowed him to lay a hand on her since he’d bloated into “something more often seen in a stockyard than a palace”. But Stuber’s words gave the baron pause. Was that all that was wrong? Was it simply the mark of some unsightly social disease? Such a minor ailment might seem as welcome as a visit from the Emperor amidst the blight that hung over Wurtbad.
“That may indeed be all it is.” All heads turned toward the speaker, a tall, slender man who had been sitting in one of the leather-backed chairs scattered throughout the bedchamber. He was younger than the physicians, his face dominated by the massive black beard that tumbled down to his chest. A round cap topped his head, the border embroidered with a scrolling gold leaf that matched the rich colouring of his flowing robes. A tall staff of the same metal rested against the wall, rushing into his open hand as he rose from his seat, gesturing toward it. The three doktors grumbled and muttered, unimpressed by the wizard’s flaunting of his sorcery. He noted their distaste and smiled, having as little use for them as they for him. It was time to undermine these fawning sycophants. They had misread their patient. Baron von Gotz was not interested in platitudes and placebos this morning. He was frightened, as they knew he had good reason to be, though none was willing to confirm his fears. For no doktor could offer hope to the baron. That was the sole province of the wizard, who would use it to win favour with his patron.
“It may be all,” the wizard repeated. “But can we afford to take that risk?” The question cut the fragile feelings of the physicians like a knife.
“And does Magister Furchtegott have some insight that he wishes to share with us?” Doktor Gehring demanded. “Perhaps boil a few frog-legs into a broth and mumble a few elven words over it?” The comment brought chuckles from his fellow doktors, but the wizard was pleased to note the baron was not laughing. “The solution to this problem requires scientific method, not arcane rites of dubious merit.” Though Gehring laced his words with scorn and derision, there was no hiding the uncertainty that undermined them. If the wizard’s star were to rise, he could well guess at whose expense it would be.
“There are certain rites and spells that have great facility in healing.” Furchtegott’s tone was precise and certain. “Even working their magic against such noxious maladies as Stir blight.” The name of the dread disease chilled the air. The wizard was pleased to note the gleam of desperate hope rekindled in the baron’s eyes.
“Forgive me, magister,” Gehring scoffed, “I was unaware that you had any facility with medicine. I had always understood that the only wizards who made a practice of healing were those of the light order, not the mystics of the gold order” But the doktor’s sneer became an expression of alarm, when he saw the keen interest in the nobleman’s eyes.
“Furchtegott, tell me what you need to work your spells,” the baron implored. The doktors began to sputter protestations, but the nobleman waved them away with an angry gesture.
“I shall need some rather expensive material components and, of course, the gracious indulgence of yourself, my dear baron.” Furchtegott struggled not to let the sense of triumph welling up within him become too obvious, though he was not entirely successful.
“Whatever you need, you shall have,” the nobleman swore.
“Oh yes,” the wizard thought, “I am most certain of that.” Once he had cured the baron of this corruption of the flesh, Furchtegott would play the nobleman’s gratitude for all it was worth. He would become the most powerful wizard in Wurtbad — possibly even in the entire eastern half of the Empire. He would have the ruler of a mighty city eating from his hand. Even the powerful Supreme Patriarch of Altdorf could not boast that same degree of autonomy and political influence. With the ruler of Wurtbad under his thumb, Furchtegott would be able to spend the wealth of an entire city to expand both his magical library and his knowledge, far beyond what he had been taught by the gold college in Altdorf.
But a moment of worry tugged at the wizard, his eyes lingering on the ugly boil just visible beneath the folds of fat dripping from the baron’s chin. There was the small matter of curing the plague, something even the Temple of Shallya and all of the city’s physicians had been unable to manage. Still, they did not possess the genius of Furchtegott. And they were trying to cure an entire city. Furchtegott needed to cure only one man.
True, the healing arts were not the central focus of a school of magic centred on the enchanted properties of gold, the most royal of metals, but Furchtegott had ideas about how to rectify this omission. There were not so many mystics and mages within Wurtbad that the court wizard of Baron Friedo did not know them all by name. Many of them he counted as his only friends in the sprawling metropolis. Many nights had they discussed theories on the nature of magic, many times had they swapped pieces of occult knowledge.
Furchtegott conjured up one name in particular, an old wizard who no longer plied his trade but had relegated himself to the role of scholar and sage. Even if he no longer channelled the ethereal winds of magic through his old bones, he still owned a most impressive library. And there was one book, in particular, that Furchtegott recalled with a keen interest.
Hopefully, the old sage would allow his friend to borrow the tome. But if destiny decreed otherwise, Furchtegott was certain the baron’s authority could make any such request quite compelling.
The sprawl of Wurtbad was a dark blemish upon the horizon, the first indication to Thulmann that the city was near. However, the witch hunter’s attention was directed toward the more immediate activity unfolding upon the road ahead. Several dozen labourers in coarse woolen tunics were busily constructing a small watch-tower from timbers they unloaded from wagons. Other men struggled to roll huge stones into the road, the beginnings of what promised to be a formidable obstruction. A large number of armed men were milling about, some of them sharpening their swords, others finding themselves a patch of shade to sit in. Thulmann was mildly alarmed to note that the uniforms they wore were not the colours of some petty baron or count, banishing his supposition that this was some minor noble’s attempt to create a toll road. The rough uniforms were the green and yellow of Stir-land’s standing army, the uniform of the elector count’s own troops.
Overseeing the operation was a mounted officer, his powerful build encased within a suit of steel plate. He watched the work crew with a keen interest, while also casting worried glances in the direction of Wurtbad. One of his soldiers, a rangy youth with a quiver
of arrows hanging from his hip, rushed over and directed his attention to the two riders now approaching him.
“What do you make of this?” Streng asked, the words slipping from the corner of his mouth.
“No doubt we are about to find out,” Thulmann replied in the same subdued tone. He noted the sound of Streng moving in his saddle. Without turning his eyes from the approaching officer, he instructed his henchman to leave the crossbow where it was. “Stir-land is not a wealthy province. You can wager that any soldier armed with a bow brought it with him when he was inducted, and knows how to use it. I’d rather not end my days as a pin cushion, and I dare say a dozen arrows in your gut may prove an impediment to your drinking.”
The officer rode forward as the archers drew their bows. The raiment of a witch hunter was quite distinct. Thulmann knew there was no question that the officer had recognised him for what he was. It was why the man was riding forward to parlay, rather than chasing them off with a volley of arrows, though it seemed he was keeping that option open to him.
“Good day, templar,” the officer greeted Thulmann, halting the grey gelding he rode at several horselengths from the witch hunter.
“Good day, captain,” the witch hunter replied, noting the oak leaf badges upon the collar over the soldier’s breastplate that displayed his rank. “You look to be very busy here.” The officer’s face grew solemn.
“Plague,” he said, letting the menacing word linger on the air. “I fear that if you have business in Wurtbad you will not be able to pursue it. By order of the elector count, the city is under quarantine. No one goes in. No one comes out.”
Thulmann fixed the officer with a stare that had caused many a warlock or heretic cultist to break out in cold sweat. “I am on the temple’s business. I must go to the city to complete my holy work. You do your uniform credit by your efficiency, but I must ask that you let us pass.”
The officer shook his head. “Did you not hear me? The city is infested with the plague. Graf Haupt-Anderssen does not want the contagion infesting the rest of the province, if it is not already too late. He has nearly two thousand men setting a cordon around the city and the river patrol is keeping ships away from the port.”
“I fear no pestilence,” Thulmann retorted. “I am upon Sigmar’s business. Surely the will of a god overrides the edict of a mere man, even if he is an elector count.”
“My apologies, templar, but I have my orders.” There was a tone of genuine regret in the officer’s voice. “I can let no one pass through the cordon.”
“Looks to me like you haven’t finished setting up your cordon,” Streng piped up, pointing to where the work crews struggled to erect the tower and block the road. The officer shook his head. Sighing, he reached an autonomous decision.
“As you are going into the city, and you are a templar, I will not block your path. But I advise against it. The disease is decimating Wurtbad, they say. Hundreds are dead already, and it will only get worse. Especially once food becomes scarce and winter sets in.”
“Nevertheless, that is where my duty takes me,” Thulmann insisted. The officer moved his horse to one side of the road, waving back to his troops to allow the witch hunter to pass.
“A word of warning, templar,” the officer said. “Once you pass my post, there is no return. My orders are quite clear. Even Sigmar himself will not find his way out of the city until the elector count lifts the quarantine.”
“I didn’t like all that talk about plague,” Streng confessed once they were out of sight of the guard’s post. “Are you certain this is a good idea?” Thulmann gave his henchman a cold smile.
“Have faith, Streng,” the witch hunter told him. “Sigmar protects his servants, perhaps he can spare some protection for you as well. And if that is not comfort enough, consider that, as a result of our activities in Klausberg, you’ll be liberating some of the gold from the treasury at Meisser’s chapter house.”
“Thin bit of good that will do me if all the whores have plague,” the mercenary grumbled. “I was in Wissenbad when the Red Pox hit it. After a few months the beer was so scarce that two crowns could hardly buy a pint.” Streng leaned over in his saddle, spitting into the brush beside the road as though to rid himself of the memory. “We should have gone back to Klausberg and laid low until the plague was done with Wurtbad.”
“We don’t have the leisure to waste that much time,” Thulmann said. “You seem to forget that we are still on the hunt.”
“Weichs?” The witch hunter nodded his head. “I don’t think he’d be fool enough to linger in a city infested by the plague,” Streng snapped back.
“Quite the contrary, the good doktor would probably find the pestilence a perfect cover for his own twisted activities,” Thulmann declared. “He’d find any number of willing subjects for his experiments if he offered them a cure for the plague. Besides, we have other business in Wurtbad besides picking up the trail of Freiherr Weichs.”
“The book?” Streng sucked at his teeth, considering the unholy tome that brought ruin to the Klausner family. “It’s been safe in Wurtbad this long, surely a few months won’t change matters.”
“You forget, the vampire is looking for it too,” Thulmann stated. “He knows now that the Klausners no longer have it in their keeping. We can’t take the chance that Sibbechai may find it before us, and a little thing like a plague isn’t enough to keep him away from Wurtbad if he learns the book is there.”
“So where do we begin?” Streng demanded. It appeared there would not be one single night of drunken debauchery before getting back to work.
“You start by securing lodgings for us,” Thulmann told him. “Don’t skimp on stables for the horses. With plague abroad, I want them kept somewhere they are not likely to be slaughtered for their meat by an enterprising stablemaster. Then you will arrange for me to occupy my old rooms at the Seven Candles. I am sure the innkeeper will be pleased to see us back so soon.”
“And what will you be doing while I’m running your errands?” Streng said in a surly tone.
“Our first priority must be to locate Helmuth Klausner’s spell book. Towards that end, I think it will be prudent if I visit our friend Captain Meisser. Even an incompetent fool like him must keep a record of licensed wizards operating in the city. The man we are looking for should be on that list.
“At least if he is still in the city,” Thulmann added.
Fritz Gotter leaned a bandaged hand against the cold, stone wall as a wracking cough shook his body. The baker lifted his other hand to his mouth when the spasm had passed, hoping not to find blood trickling from it. His hope was in vain. The disease was chewing up his innards as surely as it was disfiguring his flesh. Thankfully it hadn’t reached his face yet, allowing him to conceal his malady from his patrons. It was doubtful if anyone would buy bread from a baker whose face was covered in Stir blight boils.
The sickly baker descended the short flight of stairs to the cellar where he kept his supplies. With the quarantine in effect, no more ships were coming into the harbour, no supplies to feed Wurtbad’s teeming masses. The demand for food was already rising as people began to stockpile rations against the winter. The quarantine was like tossing oil onto a fire. There was a great deal of money to be made — money that Fritz Gotter could use to pay for the plague doktor’s regular visits.
Gotter sniffed at the tunic he wore beneath his apron, wincing at the smell. It still carried the lilac perfume scent left by the doktor after his visit. Gotter disliked the smell, it made him feel like a three-shilling tart down by the harbour. Still, it was a minor inconvenience when balanced against the prospect of a slow and horrible death.
The baker paused on the bottom step, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He could see the stacks of flour heaped in one corner, a few barrels of honey sitting beside them.
The sound of furtive scurrying made his face twist with disgust. The damnable rats were back. The filthy things were too shrewd to waste their time with Go
tter’s sawdust-ridden bread. No, they went straight for the flour, and never managed to stumble into the many traps the baker had set out for them. Sometimes it seemed to Gotter that the vermin were almost human in their intelligence.
He picked an old table leg from a small pile of junk beside the stairway, slapping the improvised cudgel into the palm of his hand. He had troubles enough without rats eating away at his income. But there would soon be a few less of the vermin to bother him.
The baker began to creep across the cellar, straining to prevent even the softest noise betraying his approach. He knew that even in the dim light streaming down from the stairway, he’d be perfectly visible to the thieving rodents. His only chance to catch them would be if they remained occupied with their stolen supper. Gotter glanced down at the floor to ensure there was no clutter underfoot to stumble on. As he did so, the colour drained from his sickly face. A thin coating of dust covered the floor, remnants of the cheap mix that went into his bread. Something had disturbed that dust. There were tracks on the floor, the clawed footmarks of rats, only larger. Much larger.
Gotter peered into the darkness in the corners of his cellar, conjuring up shapes without form or distinction. His mind raced with horrors recollected from childhood, frightful stories told to terrify the unruly child. “Be a good boy Fritz,” his mother used to say. “Or the underfolk will come and take you away” The baker shuddered, tears rising unbidden to his eyes, blurring his gaze even as they darted from side to side, straining to see every inch of the cellar.
The faint scurrying persisted, and Gotter was certain he could smell something that was not flour nor sawdust nor the mustiness of the room. The stench of mangy fur, of rank verminous breath, of rotting meat caught between sharp fangs. A cough began to gather in his chest. The baker fought to contain the spasm, his eyes on those hideous tracks.
[Mathias Thulmann 02] - Witch Finder Page 4
