[Mathias Thulmann 02] - Witch Finder

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

  His gaze fell upon the broken, ragged thing lying upon the walnut desk that reposed near the room’s north wall. Its sombre robes were in keeping with the grim raiment of an amethyst wizard, its pallid skin and weak frame the marks of a scholar. Its face resembled that of Ivar Kohl. The man Thulmann had been so anxious to subdue before he could unleash the profane lore of Das Buch die Unholden. Kohl’s back was snapped like a twig, his neck twisted like that of a slaughtered hen.

  Thulmann stared at the body, for once in sympathy with Meisser. Things were becoming complicated again, and he did not like it. Like an arrow hurled by Sigmar himself, Meisser’s records had pointed the way to Wolfram Kohl. But now, the arrow was broken.

  From the corner of his eye, Thulmann saw a withered apparition appear from the shadows around the bookcase. The gaunt, unspeakable form lunged at him with impossible speed. Talons, black and hard like the backs of beetles, reached for Thulmann’s throat. Instinct saved the witch hunter’s life, as he threw himself over the desk, spilling the ruined corpse of Wolfram Kohl onto the floor. In his wake, claw-like hands splintered the wood of the desk, shredding it as though it were paper.

  Thulmann rolled onto his back, aiming and firing his pistol in one smooth motion. But the instincts of his attacker were just as keen, the silver bullet passing within inches of its skull-face as the monster dodged aside. Torn paper exploded from the far side of the room as the shot burrowed into a bookcase.

  “Again you place yourself between me and what is mine!” the vampire snarled, eyes blazing from the pits of its face. “You shall not do so a third time, witch finder!” it spat.

  Sibbechai! By what dark and unholy arts had the creature been led to Wolfram Kohl’s door? It removed even the faintest doubt that Das Buch die Unholden had been entrusted to the late wizard. But such logical reasoning would mean little if Thulmann was to allow his throat to be torn out. He ripped his sword from its sheath, glaring defiantly at the undead abomination. A wary quality entered Sibbechai’s expression, for the necrarch remembered the weapon well. Vampire and witch hunter glared at each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move and the first mistake.

  “Shoot!” Silja’s quivering voice cried out. “Kill it!” Thulmann looked past the vampire to see her standing just inside the room. Behind her, Meisser and his two witch hunters were dragging pistols from their holsters. Their movements may as well have been those of men wading through a bog. To the vampire, they might as well have been standing still.

  The monster spun around, a snarl ripping through its withered lips, its shroud-like robe whipping the air. Sibbechai prepared to lunge at its new foes when Father Kunz’s elderly face appeared behind the witch hunters. A small, silver twin-tailed comet icon flew from his hand as his mouth moved in prayer. The holy symbol was swatted aside with disgust by the vampire, but Sibbechai hissed in pain, acrid smoke sizzling from its dried flesh where it had touched. A deeper malice blazed from the vampire’s eyes.

  With a roar and a crack, the bullet from Meisser’s pistol slammed into Sibbechai’s chest, knocking the vampire back. The other witch hunters added their fire to the small fusillade, both shots smashing into the vampire’s withered frame. Sibbechai curled its torso toward its midsection. A wracking, malevolent laugh oozed from the vampire. Straightening, it smiled at the men who were shocked by the vampire’s vitality.

  “Think your common pig iron is enough?” Sibbechai spat. Before the vampire could demonstrate its undiminished strength, Thulmann leapt upon it from behind the desk. The templar’s momentum drove the steel of his sword deep into the necrarch’s body, impaling its midsection. Sibbechai roared in agony, clawed hands grabbing Thulmann’s shoulders and flinging him across the room. The witch hunter crashed against one of the bookcases, head ringing from his violent impact.

  The vampire staggered away from the desk, twisting its body in a desperate effort to release the sword embedded in its flesh. Seeing the monster’s weakened condition, Silja and her bodyguard charged forward, blades gleaming in the flickering light. The back of one hand smashed into the woman’s chest, hurling her backward as though kicked by a horse. Claws ripped the face of her guard, his sword falling as he tried to push his ruined eyes back into his skull. The two witch hunters hurrying to support Silja’s attack met similar resistance. One man lay in a pile of limbs and gore, his belly ripped open by the vampire’s supernatural strength, the other was fortunate to escape with a fractured collarbone.

  Empowered by the scent of blood in the air, Sibbechai’s claws closed about the weapon trapped in its flesh. With a savage growl, the vampire ripped it free, pulling its length from the side of its body. Smoke rose from the wound as Thulmann’s blessed sword clattered to the floor. The vampire’s smouldering gaze burned as the witch hunter slowly rose. Then Sibbechai’s eyes darted toward the hallway.

  “Don’t let it escape!” Thulmann shouted, but the vampire was already in motion. Like a thunderbolt of darkness, Sibbechai swept into the corridor, swatting Meisser aside like an irritating insect as the captain fumbled to reload his pistol. Father Kunz, striking at the monster with his staff, was rewarded with a torn throat. From deeper in the house came the sound of shattering glass, punctuated by a short scream from outside. As Thulmann staggered across the library to recover his sword, he knew it was already too late. Once more, Sibbechai had disappeared into the night.

  Thulmann looked at the carnage all around him. Silja Markoff had crawled over to her injured guard, doing her best to help bind his mutilated face. One of Meisser’s men was dead, the other a groaning heap of pain. Father Kunz lay in the hallway, dying noisily as he choked upon his own blood.

  Meisser was struggling to bind a gash running along his leg, a clumsy operation with one arm still bound in a sling. Thulmann took a step toward the injured man, pausing to lift Meisser’s pistol from the floor.

  “That… a vampire!” Meisser gibbered. He had been an apprentice when last he encountered the foul undead in a tomb outside Carroburg. He had thought, or hoped, that he need never encounter such a being again. Politicking and scheming had become his vocations, in prosperous villages and great cities, not unhallowed tombs and ruined castles. But it seemed the undead were not content to remain in their own grisly habitat.

  “Yes, a vampire!” Thulmann agreed, venom filling his words. He angrily tossed the lead bullet Meisser had been ramming into his pistol at the wounded man. “Congratulations, captain, you’ve learned something this day! There is good reason for the Order of Sigmar to instruct its servants to use bullets crafted of silver, blessed by a priest!” Thulmann pulled Meisser to his feet, forcing a cry of pain from the older man. He could practically read Meisser’s mind — silver bullets were an expensive piece of ostentation, why arm his men in so costly a fashion when the money might be better spent buying favours at court?

  “I am of a mind to finish what Sibbechai started,” Thulmann spoke, his voice cold and murderous. The witch hunter turned his head, feeling eyes upon him. Silja Markoff’s expression was perhaps even more horrified than before. He released his grip, letting Meisser crash back to the floor. “I need your men, captain. All of them. If you found hunting down a witch an entertaining distraction, I’m certain you will find tracking a vampire’s grave even more stimulating!”

  Thulmann strode from the library, not trusting himself to remain near Meisser. Already he could hear the surviving guards from outside rushing into the wizard’s parlour. He would need them to carry the wounded and the dead from the library. Then they would help him burn every scrap of paper in the room. There was no time to search it thoroughly. Even now Sibbechai would be gathering its strength to return. If Das Buch die Unholden was there, it would be consumed with the rest.

  Either way, Thulmann knew, the vampire would soon be hunting him. Sibbechai would demand revenge for the events of this night.

  But one thought troubled him even more than the vampire’s ire. If it hadn’t been able to retrieve Das Buch die Unhold
en from Wolfram Kohl’s library, then exactly where was the book?

  Furchtegott looked up from the mouldering pages he had been consulting. The wizard was happy that he hadn’t eaten a large supper. The very substance of Das Buch die Unholden was abhorrent enough — bound in what looked like tanned human skin, the skull of some horned reptile fixed upon its cover, its parchment of human flesh written upon in blood — but the spells he had been deciphering were enough to sicken the most jaded murderer. They were designed to combat disease and plague, but it seemed to Furchtegott the cure was even more abominable than the sickness. Still, the wizard was taking the pragmatic view of a healthy man. Somebody with Stir blight coursing through his body would no doubt see things differently. Still, it was probably better if Baron von Gotz didn’t know the secrets of the magic that his court wizard would employ on his behalf.

  The wizard stared again at the ugly symbol that festered upon the page. It was like a crumbling scab, three intertwined circles each pierced by an arrow. Furchtegott knew enough about the proscribed gods of Chaos to recognise the symbol of one of the most dreaded: Nurgle, the god of plague. The ugly blemish seemed to writhe upon the page as he said the name of the lord of pestilence. The wizard dismissed the impression. There were no real gods, dark or otherwise. Chaos was simply a force, a power that men clothed in superstition because they did not understand it. Were not the winds of magic simply a manifestation of this energy? All magic owed its power to what men called Chaos.

  No, there were no Dark Gods. Only petty men who used their dark imaginings as an excuse to oppress others. Das Buch die Unholden was only one more grimoire, the spells he had deciphered not so different from those he had been taught in Altdorf, once they were stripped of references to the Dark Powers. Its spells would help him to cure the baron, placing his patron deeply in Furchtegott’s debt. Which was exactly where he wanted him.

  The wizard searched the list of material components he would need to work the spell. Many of them he could find easily enough. Others would be more difficult. He was especially nervous about the “maggots from a sick man’s belly”. Those, he realised, he would need to collect himself.

  Furchtegott also realised it would be a long time before he could face anything approaching a large supper.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The early morning sun peeked through the clouds that hung over Wurtbad. Slowly, like some wounded beast, the city began to stir. Doors made fast against the hours of darkness were unbolted, shutters swung open to admit the fragile grey light of morning. Bleary-eyed men emerged from their homes to face whatever labours the day held for them. The sound of traders carting their wares from storehouses to places that could yet afford their goods rattled from the main streets of the city. There was feed and straw to be taken from warehouses to the stables scattered across Wurtbad, wine and beer to be doled out to the taverns. The world of commerce had yet to be consumed by the disease that infested the city. Only the prices had changed, thus far. It would be weeks before most merchants became bold enough to raise their prices extortionately, before their greed devoured their decency.

  Mathias Thulmann walked the early morning streets with a heavy tread. Twice he nearly spilled himself into the gutter, his tired boots keeping poor purchase on the dew-slick cobblestones. After the battle in Wolfram Kohl’s library, Thulmann had gathered the rest of Meisser’s witch hunters, telling them what needed to be done. Little more than an hour later, the wizard’s home had been reduced to a mound of smoking rubble. He wanted to believe that the Klausner book had been destroyed along with the wizard’s other possessions, but a grim foreboding warned him against it.

  Beside him strode the slender form of Silja Markoff, her stately gait impaired by the limp that betrayed the injury dealt by Sibbechai. Thulmann had tried to induce the woman to return to her father, to nurse her bruises, but she brushed away his concerns.

  “Your ambition is showing,” Thulmann commented, as they turned the corner onto the thoroughfare that led to the Seven Candles inn. “You needn’t worry about any influence Meisser has with me. I can assure you that the fool has none.” A harsher quality entered the witch hunter’s voice. “I can also assure you that I am not easily manipulated.”

  “Forgive me, Herr Thulmann,” said Silja. “I am better acquainted with Captain Meisser and his creatures. I had assumed that all witch hunters were spineless cowards content to allow others to do their fighting. Unfortunately, that presumption is rather at odds with your own character. I have much pondering to do before I can make further assessment.”

  “You speak candidly,” Thulmann said. “But spend not too much time taking my measure. I am just a humble servant of Lord Sig-mar, nothing more. And don’t be too hard on your templars, many of them are good and honest men. If they seem less, the blame lies in their leadership.”

  The witch hunter stumbled, his fatigue overcoming his balance. Silja grabbed his waist, steadying the tottering templar. Thulmann gave his companion a weak smile. Silja removed her grip as she found him steady once more.

  “You need your rest, Brother Mathias,” she stated. “You’ll do no one any good if you are dead on your feet. And believe me, you are dead on your feet.” The witch hunter turned to face the young woman. Her remaining bodyguard, several steps behind them, also came to a halt, making no move to close the distance between himself and his charge.

  “Two things, Lady Markoff,” Thulmann’s silky voice snapped. “First, there is much to be done and no one else to do it. The day will not last forever. Only an idiot would attempt what we need to do after the sun has set. Second, you should call me Mathias. Saving my bruised hide from a vampire entitles you to at least that much. Leave ‘Brother Mathias’ to simpering cretins like Meisser.”

  “Very well, Mathias,” Silja replied. “But tell me why you take so much responsibility onto your shoulders? Surely you are not so conceited as to believe yourself the only one in Wurtbad capable of that which needs to be done?” Thulmann shook his head.

  “I’ve seen enough to know there’s a brain inside that pretty noggin of yours, even if it doesn’t have the good sense to keep out of a vampire’s reach,” Thulmann told her. “But you are not of the Order of Sigmar. You are an agent of the secular authority, not a representative of the temple. The only men trained to find the vampire’s hiding place are the witch hunters, and they will not follow you. Besides, you are just as tired and bruised as I am.” He lifted his hand, forestalling Silja’s protest. “Don’t let Meisser fool you, there are decent, intelligent men under his command. It is a cruel jest that they must be subordinate to such a scheming toad, but the gods will have their amusements.”

  “If there are such men,” Silja insisted, “then put one of them in charge.”

  Thulmann sighed, shaking his head. “Meisser will let me run things because I’m an outsider. Frankly, the swine is afraid of me. If I put one of his own in charge, Meisser will undermine him and take command himself.” His voice grew sombre. “Four men will be buried today because of that parasite, another will probably be crippled for the rest of his days. I’d say Captain Meisser has already made a great enough contribution, would you not?”

  Thulmann began to walk away. Silja hurried to keep pace. “Last night, after the vampire escaped…” She stared into her face. “You wouldn’t really have…”

  “Killed him?” Thulmann let a humourless sound rumble from his throat. “By Sigmar I wanted to. But that would have been purely selfish. It would have been on account of my hate, not justice for the men who died for his stupidity.”

  “Different motives, but the same end,” said Silja.

  “No,” he corrected her. “The reason that a man acts is as important as the deed itself. Nobility of purpose may excuse the blackest deeds, hate and greed may foul the proudest accomplishments.” Thulmann smiled as he saw the sign of the Seven Candles inn at the end of the street.

  “My rooms are here,” he told Silja. “We’ll gather up Streng and hurry back
to the chapter house.”

  “This man of yours has some skill in these matters?” Silja enquired.

  “Perhaps not skill, but certainly experience,” Thulmann said. “We have faced these monsters together. I can trust him to stand his ground. Not everyone has the courage to confront the undead, much less go searching in cemeteries for their hiding places. I want Streng with me.” He paused to consider his words. “That is, if his hangover hasn’t left him in a state even less fit than my own.”

  “You make him sound very gallant,” Silja observed. Thulmann paused again, casting an appraising eye over Silja Markoff’s figure.

  “When you meet him,” he warned her, “watch his hands.”

  Even if the threat of plague did not hover over the dockyards, Carandini suspected the foul reek of the fishmonger’s shop would have kept inquisitive souls at bay. The Tilean was, he had to admit, rather impressed by his undead associate’s choice of hiding place. Vampires did not see the world the way living creatures did. Only in places where the aura of death was great did they find any degree of comfort. Graves and mausoleums were more “real” to such beings than the cities and towns of the living. It was only among such surroundings that they could find even the shadow of comfort and ease.

  And Sibbechai was cunning. The necrarch knew it might become the hunted rather than the hunter, and had prepared for that possibility. Certainly, a rundown fishmonger’s hut was the last place Carandini would expect to find a dread lord of the night, sleeping away the daylight hours.

  The necromancer slipped into the hut, a single-room hovel filled with debris and rubbish. He navigated his way twixt the heaps of fish bones, cracked masonry and splintered wood. When the business had failed, it seemed its neighbours had adopted the building as a dumping ground. Of course, thanks to the plague, there was no one left in the vicinity to continue the practice. At the back of the room, Carandini found the small trapdoor. In the past, he supposed, the little cellar had been used to smoke fish. Certainly the smell rising from below seemed to bear out his theory.