[Mathias Thulmann 03] - Witch Killer

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

  Even as his mind turned over the troubles gnawing at it, Thulmann’s senses were alert. His ears strained to listen to the hushed, whispered exchanges between the despondent citizens of the city. Time and again, he heard a name uttered — the name of the monster that had killed the grand theogonist, the name of the dark champion who would usher in a new age of Chaos. Archaon, they called him, and made the sign of the hammer as they did so.

  Thulmann stopped his horse in the middle of the street and dismounted. He handed Streng the reins. “Take the horses to the Parravon Stables, and get us lodging at the Blacktusk. See that Silja gets a nice room.” The remark brought a brief smile to the woman’s face.

  “And what about you?”

  “I have to report to my superiors,” Thulmann replied. “They will want to hear about my investigation in Klausberg and what happened in Wurtbad.” The witch hunter rested his gloved hand on Silja’s shoulder. “Before you ask, it is something I need to do alone. Besides, I need someone to keep an eye on Streng and make sure he gets everything done before he finds some bottle to crawl into.”

  Silja’s expression told Thulmann she was far from convinced, but she nodded. “Will you be long?”

  “I can’t say,” Thulmann said. “Zerndorff may ask me to expand upon my report. It could take some time.” The witch hunter smiled as a thought occurred to him. “Why don’t you have Streng show you some of the sights once you’re settled in. Head to the Fist and Glove around dusk. If I can, I will meet you there for dinner.”

  Silja watched Thulmann go, navigating his way through the crowds until his black hat and cloak vanished in the distance.

  “I must part company here as well,” Ehrhardt’s deep voice rumbled. “Like Brother Mathias, I too have superiors I must report to.” The knight bowed, and then turned and marched off through the crowd, the pedestrians nervously stepping aside as the grim black templar strode past.

  “That just leaves you and me then,” Silja sighed.

  Streng smiled back at her, displaying yellow teeth behind his beard.

  “You’d better lead the way” she said.

  Streng chuckled, adjusting his hold on the reins of the horses. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your bearings soon enough. Upwind are all the good areas, downwind are the Morrwies and the slums.”

  “I wasn’t worried about getting lost,” Silja said. “I just want you where I can see you. I haven’t forgotten Mathias’ warning about your hands.”

  Streng grumbled, sullenly pulling the horses after him. “Something else I have to thank Mathias for. And what was that crack about me crawling into a bottle? He knows as well as me we haven’t been paid yet!”

  Thulmann was left alone with his thoughts for longer than he had expected. Sforza Zerndorff maintained a set of offices within the grim facade of the templar headquarters. The squat structure nestled in the shadow of the Great Cathedral of Sigmar. Its situation permitted daylight to reach it only for a few brief moments when the sun was directly overhead, the Cathedral and other buildings of the Domplatz acting to keep the structure in perpetual shadow. The symbolism had never been lost on Thulmann, for witch hunters forever lived their lives in the shadows. The templars of Sigmar were men who surrendered the clean life of their fellow man to prowl a world of limitless intrigue and darkness.

  The waiting room was spartanly adorned, although Zerndorff’s extravagant touch was still in evidence. A long carpet, its thread woven into the sinuous, writhing patterns of Araby, cushioned Thulmann's feet as he paced the small hallway. Velvet-backed cherry wood chairs lined the wall and tempted him away from his vigil.

  If Zerndorff was trying to wrong-foot him by keeping him waiting there was no need. Before setting foot in Altdorf, Thulmann’s mind was already afire with doubts and fears. The news of Volk-mar’s death had only increased their strength and number. The grand theogonist had been a great man, a man of faith and courage, truly touched by the light of Sigmar. Not all who wore the mantle of a Sigmarite could claim such virtues and grace. The late Lord Protector Thaddeus Gamow was one such creature, rumoured heretic and worse. Thulmann considered Sforza Zerndorff another, a man whose ruthless ambitions took second place to nothing. While Volkmar had been alive, there had been a force to keep such men in check, a power to which they would answer should their ambitions grow too bold. Volkmar had been an embodiment of hope, Thulmann realised, hope that the sickness within the temple would be contained, would one day be cut out.

  Thulmann continued to pace the small room. He feared towards what purpose Zerndorff might put his report. There was the ruin of the noble Klausner name, and what Zerndorff might do with that information, discrediting and diminishing those who had been close to the Klausners. Then there was Das Buch die Unholden itself to consider. Thulmann knew that the potent tome would excite his superior’s interest. It was not that Zerndorff would seek to actually use the book — he was no heretic — but the capture of such an artefact would do much to impress the scions of the temple, and to cause Zerndorff’s name to circle within the upper echelons.

  The hall door of the small waiting room swung open. A short man dressed in grey entered, a black cape billowing around his shoulders and a shapeless black hat scrunched on his silver hair. He clutched a gold-tipped cane in his gloved hand. There was colour in his full features, the neatly trimmed beard drooping in a smouldering scowl. Sforza Zerndorff’s eyes narrowed as he saw Thulmann, the scowl remaining fixed on his features.

  “Brother Mathias, you were expected several weeks ago,” Zerndorff said, his words clipped. The Witch Hunter General did not break his stride but continued to move towards the inner door of the waiting room.

  “There were complications, my lord,” Thulmann replied. “I was delayed.”

  Zerndorff paused, his hand on the gilded doorknob. “Delayed?” he asked, in disgust. “You are a servant of Sigmar’s temple, on temple business. Would our Lord Sigmar allow petty considerations to distract him from his duty? Did he tarry in Reikdorf while orcs sacked Astofen? Did he stay safe and secure in his golden halls while the Black One’s lifeless horde stalked the land?”

  “Wurtbad was struck down by plague,” Thulmann answered, chafing under Zerndorff’s withering reprimand. “It was impossible to leave.”

  Some of the colour left Zerndorff’s features and he took a step back from Thulmann, pulling the door open as he moved. He seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Another voice intruded into the silence, a deep imperious voice that Thulmann knew quite well.

  “Plague did you say?”

  Thulmann had been so intent on his superior that he had allowed his normally keen senses to slip. He had not paid attention to the second man who had entered the waiting room, dismissing him as one of Zerndorff’s bodyguard. Now he found himself looking at someone who was far more imposing than the pair of silent, matched killers that served Zerndorff.

  The man was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and long arms. The riding breeches and tunic he wore were of fine leather and cut in military fashion, but the black cloak draped around his shoulders, the ornamentation of his boots and the leather vambraces around his wrists could tell any observer that this was no officer of the militia. The golden ornaments were twin-tailed comets and the style of the cloak was of the kind that only one organisation in the Empire wore. The face of the other witch hunter was sharp and aristocratic, black hair swept back in a widow’s peak, the eyes penetrating and commanding.

  “I trust that Brother Mathias has not come here in too great haste?” There was a suggestion of actual amusement in the witch hunter’s tone as he spoke, although Zerndorff did not share his companion’s mirth.

  Thulmann forced a strained smile on his face when he made his reply. “No, Brother Kristoph, there is small cause for worry. I remained in Wurtbad until the disease was defeated. Graf Alberich lifted the quarantine. That is how I come to be here, tardy, but healthy.”

  Thulmann’s words displayed more confidence than he felt. Kristoph Krie
ger was far from a stranger to him, there had been several occasions in the past when the two had crossed paths.

  Krieger was everything that Thulmann was not. Coming from a long line of templars, the Kriegers were almost an institution in Bogenhafen and Kristoph’s star had risen quite quickly and effortlessly within the Order of Sigmar. Thulmann had been the son of a Bechafen priest, entering the Order of Sigmar with only his own determination and talents to recommend him. Krieger was something of a political animal, currying favours and debts where they would prove the most beneficial. By contrast, Thulmann refused to play the parasitic game of politics, working for everything he earned.

  “Since we are all in good health then,” Zerndorff said, opening the door to his office, “I would hear your report, Mathias.”

  Thulmann followed Zerndorff through the gilded portal, Krieger close behind him. The time for doubt and fear was past. Now there was only duty and honour.

  It was well into the night before Thulmann was dismissed from Zerndorff’s chambers. The witch hunter general had listened attentively to every facet of Thulmann’s report, hanging on his every word as he related the corruption of the Klausner family, and their employment of the unholy Das Buch die Unholden to protect themselves from the vampire Sibbechai. When Thulmann described the book, and its gruesome history, he could almost see the greedy light burning in Zerndorff’s eyes. The remainder of his report was continually interrupted with questions about the book and its fate and whereabouts. It did not ease Thulmann’s conscience that Krieger seemed as keenly interested in the matter as Zerndorff was.

  Given the turn his meeting had taken, it was small surprise to Thulmann that Zerndorff was agreeable to Thulmann’s intention to track down the skaven sorcerer. Also not surprising, although exceedingly unpleasant, was Zerndorff’s decision that the matter was too important for Thulmann to take on alone. Kristoph Krieger would help Thulmann in his hunt and ensure that the book was recovered and brought back to Altdorf.

  Thulmann left the meeting feeling weary, but it was a fatigue of the soul not the body that sapped his strength. The long river journey had given him much time to think about what he would need to do. There had been time to desperately struggle to devise another plan, a way to proceed without going to the Reiksfang, without seeing the creature confined there. There had been time to remember all that had passed between them. It was the pain that never left. He could feel it still, like a cold dead hand closing around his heart. Thinking about the man in the Reiksfang had caused that pain to stab into him with a vengeance. If there were any other way, he wouldn’t come within a league of the Reiksfang, content to allow the man there to rot in his black cell, but he had no choice. The prisoner was his best hope of tracking down the skaven sorcerer.

  As darkness settled on Altdorf, only the mourning bell of the Great Cathedral of Sigmar continued to toll, leaving the rest of the city to grieve in silence. Thulmann turned away from the dark alleyways leading from the Order of Sigmar, striding out into the wide plaza before the cathedral. The plaza was deserted, save for a single line of black-robed monks, silently lashing themselves with whips as they marched, lamenting with their blood the death of Volkmar. Thulmann watched them for a moment, impressed by their devotion, and then mounted the massive stone steps leading up into the cathedral’s cavernous chapel. The fortress-like doors stood open, the hall within glowing with the light of thousands of candles. Thulmann took a silver coin from his belt, handing it to the shaven-headed initiate standing beside the doors and bowing his head as the priest handed him a small black candle.

  The witch hunter walked through the nave, down past the aisles of pews where even at so late an hour a small army of mourning Altdorfers kept vigil. Ahead, Thulmann could see the sanctuary, glowing with the brilliance of thousands of candles, their flickering light making the enormous golden hammer fixed above the altar seem alive with molten flame. A bronze brazier fumed on the altar, its sacred fire filling the sanctuary with foggy incense. The sight was both spectacular and woeful, uplifting and despondent at once. The eerie beauty of the sanctuary could not erase the reason it was so adorned: the loss of the grand theogonist.

  As he reached the altar, Thulmann knelt, bowing his forehead to the cold stone floor. He thought again of Volkmar, the stern, uncompromising priest who had been the heart and conscience of the Sigmarite faith for decades. He remembered the priest who could bring hope to the miserable with a few soft words, and with a single glance bring the mighty low with humility. Thulmann had been fortunate enough to meet Volkmar several times, and the sword the witch hunter bore had been blessed by the grand theogonist’s own hand. The Empire would mourn its grand theogonist formally, but to the teeming masses, Volkmar was a distant, unknowable figure. Thulmann knew exactly what sort of man they had lost, and knew how much diminished the Empire was without him.

  The witch hunter began to retrace his passage between the aisles. He had nearly reached the nave when he heard a voice call his name. Out of habit, his gloved hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, but as he turned he saw that he would not need it. A man dressed in the white and red of a warrior priest of Sigmar hurried down the aisle. Thulmann smiled as he recognised the weathered features and rampaging grey beard that curled down to the priest’s chest.

  “Father Brendle,” Thulmann greeted the priest, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the mourners. “Of all the people I expected to see in Altdorf, you certainly weren’t one of them.”

  “It has been a long time,” Brendle replied, “but I could not fail to recognise Mathias Thulmann when he walked to the altar. It warms my heart to see you fit and well.”

  “I could say the same, old friend,” Thulmann said, clapping the priest’s shoulder. Despite his age, the body beneath Brendle’s coarse robes was still muscular, retaining some of the strength his years as a mercenary had given him.

  Brendle looked around him and shook his head. “I fear that it might be disrespectful to catch up on old times here. I know a wine shop not too far away where we can sit down and talk like gentlemen, or at least reasonable facsimiles of gentlemen.”

  “Are you certain I wouldn’t be taking you from your duties?”

  “Quite certain,” Brendle said, waving aside the question. “I’ll explain once we have a bottle between us.”

  The wine shop Brendle led Thulmann to was a small, nondescript little building. Except for themselves, the only denizens of the shop were a bleary-eyed watchman deep in his cups and a pair of lamplighters trying to drive the night’s chill from their bones. Brendle appropriated a bottle of Reikland Hoch from the wine seller, and settled down at the rearmost of the establishment’s few tables.

  “To Volkmar,” Brendle said as he poured a glass for himself and his guest. Thulmann returned the toast and sat down at the table.

  “I must confess to being surprised to see you serving at the cathedral,” Thulmann said as Brendle poured another glass, “quite an advancement from your old posting in Middenland.”

  Brendle laughed and took another drink. “You’d think so, but actually I had no more reason for being in the cathedral than you, just a faithful Sigmarite paying his respects to the grand theogonist. I think mentioning the name of Horst Brendle in connection with a position at the cathedral would cause a few arch-lectors to have heart attacks. I’m between postings, to be honest.” Brendle coloured as he made the confession and then laughed. “Seems I was sent up there more as a liaison between the temples of Sigmar and Ulric. It probably made a bit of sense to some high-up, what with me being from Middenheim and all. Anyway, it didn’t work out so well.”

  “Why do I find that unsurprising?” Thulmann asked. “Please tell me you didn’t call Ar-Ulric a backwards heathen or some such?”

  Brendle’s colour grew a shade more crimson and he refused to meet Thulmann’s gaze.

  “Nothing that scandalous,” he replied. “The fellow I had words with was several steps beneath Ar-Ulric. We had a pretty good scrap just the
same.”

  Thulmann almost choked on his wine. “You… you got in a fist fight with a priest of Ulric?”

  “Something like that,” Brendle admitted. “He had an axe handle and I had a plucked chicken. You’d be surprised how hard you can hit a fellow with one of those. Cleared the street plenty quick when they heard that thing smacking against his arm.”

  “You got into a street brawl with a priest of Ulric?” Thulmann’s incredulity continued to grow. He knew Brendle could be hot-tempered, but brawling with another priest in the middle of a street was riotous even by Brendle’s standards.

  “We were in the street when it started. Everything on the Ulricsberg is a street of some sort or another.”

  “The Ulricsberg! Middenheim?” Thulmann shook his head. Middenheim was the city-state fountainhead of the Ulrician faith, the centre of Ulric’s worship. Brendle’s brawl would have been bad enough in some Middenland backwater, but in Middenheim itself…

  “Well, that’s where Wolf-father Baegyr was.”

  “Wolf-father Baegyr! Ar-Ulric Valgeir’s cousin! Never mind, I don’t want to hear any more.”

  Brendle poured himself another glass of wine and smiled at his friend. “So, what brings you to Altdorf? Last I heard you were down in Stirland someplace tracking a heretic physician. Don’t tell me the news about Volkmar has reached Stirland already? They only found out about him here three days ago.”

  “No, official business brought me back.” Thulmann related in the most general terms his reasons for returning to Altdorf, keeping from Brendle details such as the involvement of the skaven and the existence of Das Buck die Unholden. When Thulmann had finished, Brendle leaned back in his chair, nodding his head as he turned over the witch hunter’s words.

  “You are certainly in an unenviable position, my friend,” Brendle stated. “Sforza Zerndorff isn’t somebody I’d like to be reporting to. Now more than ever.”