“Why is now so inauspicious a time?” Thulmann knew he would like hearing whatever details lay behind Brendle’s comment even less than he had the account of his brawl with Baegyr, but he also knew it would be wise to hear the information.
“The temple’s in turmoil,” Brendle said. “Volkmar’s death has sent shock waves through the church. Worse, it has made the cult of Sigmar look vulnerable in the eyes of the commoners. They’re already talking about this Kurgan filth Archaon as if he’s the second coming of Asavar Kul. The temple needs to do something to reassure the people, and they need to do it soon. The lectors are already holding meetings behind locked doors. I think before the week is out, you’ll find they’ve elected a new grand theogonist.”
“Any idea who?”
“Yes, from the information I’ve heard it’s going to be Arch-lector Esmer.” Brendle nodded as he saw Thulmann’s face drop. “Yeah, that’s how I felt too. He’s a far cry from filling Volkmar’s mantle.”
“But that should be better for Zerndorff, not worse,” Thulmann pointed out. “There was never any love lost between Volkmar and Zerndorff, but I don’t think he’s ever crossed swords with Esmer.”
“However, Zerndorff is one of the witch hunter generals appointed by Volkmar after he abolished the position of lord protector.” Brendle tapped his finger on the table as he made his point. “What is the one thing Esmer is absolutely infamous for? He’s a miser, guards the temple treasury like it was his daughter’s chastity belt. You take a man like that and make him grand theogonist, first thing he’s going to do is start streamlining the church and seeing where he can save money. Then we have the witch hunter generals, three officers, each with their own staff and command, doing the job one man was doing only a few years ago; a man whose heresy was never even proved.”
“Esmer’s going to restore the position of lord protector?” The thought was a troubling one, because if true, Thulmann knew Zerndorff would be doubly determined to claim it for his own, both to expand his power and to prevent him losing that which he had accumulated as Witch Hunter General South.
“That possibility is certainly the rumour of the moment within the Order of Sigmar,” Brendle replied. “A few templars are even sending out feelers, trying to get their name where it might be noticed. Zerndorff is certainly sparing no effort in that regard and neither is Lord Bethe. I’m actually surprised that you hadn’t heard any rumours. These days they are thick as flies at the Fist and Glove.”
Mention of the infamous tavern frequented by Altdorf’s witch hunters caused Thulmann to rise from his seat. Silja! His mind had been so troubled that he’d forgotten he was to sup with her. He glanced out of the wine shop’s small window, wincing as he saw how dark the night had grown. Small chance she would still be waiting.
“Forgive me, Horst, but I just remembered I was supposed to meet someone at the Fist and Glove.” Thulmann recovered his hat and turned from the table.
“If it was Streng, that lout has probably drunk himself under a table or into a cell by this time.” Brendle laughed as Thulmann made his retreat from the wine shop.
Mathias Thulmann slowly mounted the stairway that wound, upwards from the extravagant foyer of the Blacktusk. Like the Fist and Glove, the Blacktusk inn was an institution in Altdorf, serving as a luxurious alternative to the barracks of Altdorf’s three chapter houses. The proprietors of the Blacktusk were retired witch hunters themselves, a tradition that stretched back almost to the time of Magnus, and were more than happy to turn over rooms to their, brother templars in return for whatever small gratuity they saw fit to bestow. Such pious devotion never failed to touch the normally stern hearts of their patrons, so the gratuities were rarely inconsequential.
As he had expected, Silja was long gone from the Fist and Glove. Streng was present however, sharing cups with a scar-faced ruffian named Gunther whom Thulmann recognised as the underling of a witch hunter named Gottfried Verdammen. Streng managed to detach himself from his new drinking crony long enough to tell Thulmann that he had stabled the horses and secured rooms at the Blacktusk inn. Silja had waited until after sunset before leaving. Streng supposed she had gone to her room at the inn.
The oak boards of the inn’s upper floor creaked beneath his feet as Thulmann made his way down the narrow hall to the numbered room the innkeeper had given him. The witch hunter entered the darkened room, removing his cloak and hat and draping them across the top of a small bureau. As he began to unbuckle his weapon belt, the sound of movement made him spin around, his hand dragging a pistol from its holster.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, eyes striving to penetrate the shadows. A slender silhouette slowly resolved itself as it drew nearer.
“It’s only me, Mathias,” Silja’s voice purred from the darkness. The voice sent a thrill racing along Thulmann’s spine and then the old gnawing fear began to creep back into his mind.
“My apologies, Lady Markoff,” Thulmann said, reaching for his hat and cloak. “I was informed this was my room.”
“It is,” Silja said. Thulmann could see that she had swapped her travelling clothes for .a loose gown of frilly lace and diaphanous silk. The sight dried his mouth on the instant. “Please don’t think me brazen. I’ve been quite patient and a woman should only wait so long, after all.”
Thulmann could feel the old fear struggling to find purchase within his mind, could feel every black and hideous recollection trying to force itself before his eyes, but Silja Markoff’s warm, inviting smile held them at bay.
“You shouldn’t be here, Silja,” Thulmann said. Silja’s expression dropped as his words reached her.
“If that is the way you feel, Mathias…” she said in a quiet, fragile tone.
Thulmann set his cloak and hat down on the bureau again. “You shouldn’t be here, Silja,” he repeated, “because tonight… tonight I don’t have the strength to turn you away.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mathias Thulmann sat in a claw-footed chair and watched as the light slowly illuminated the sleeping woman. He felt a tinge of envy, watching Silja sleep. It had been a long time since he had slept so soundly. There were too many black deeds and fell memories to allow him the sleep of the just. Of late the problem had been made even worse by his feelings for Silja. The nightmares he suffered were not merely the horrors of the past, but fears for the future. If he closed his eyes too long he could see Anya’s face, not the way it had looked when he had wed her but the way it had looked that last ghastly night in Bechafen. Reason told him it was impossible for the same thing to happen to Silja, but reason did not keep that dread from filling his heart and tormenting his mind.
The great witch hunter, Thulmann thought. The man of iron whose courage never wavers, whose resolve is as unshakeable as the Great Cathedral of Sigmar. Only he wasn’t. He knew the fear of Old Night and the uncertainty of pity and mercy. He knew the despair of loneliness and the desperate longing for someone to fill the emptiness of his heart. He’d been unequal to the labour of holding his selfish desire in check, too weak to deny himself the solace and warmth Silja offered him.
Thulmann felt guilt well up within him. He should never have accepted Silja’s love. He couldn’t claim her, couldn’t do justice by her. All he could do was bring her more pain, and she had already had enough of that in her life. Perhaps far worse than pain, he thought, considering the task he intended to accomplish before the day’s end. Anya had been destroyed for loving him. He had no right to allow Silja to risk the same. He would tell her as much and force her to understand that their night had simply been a pleasant happenstance, nothing more.
It couldn’t be allowed to be more.
Thulmann nearly jumped from his chair when a fist pounded against the chamber door. He saw Silja stir uneasily in the bed as the sound reverberated through the room. The witch hunter leapt to his feet and hurried to the door before the summons could be repeated.
“About time you was moving your arse, Mathias.” Streng’s grimy countenan
ce filled the doorway. The mercenary carried a pair of heavy leather coats over his arm. “You still have a mind to go?” he asked. Then his gaze settled on the bed and a bawdy smile spread across his bearded face. “Of course if you are too tired we could always go tomorrow.”
Thulmann snatched one of the coats from his henchman. “Damn your tongue,” he snapped, joining the mercenary in the hallway and closing the door behind him. “Is everything ready?”
“Just the way you wanted it,” Streng said. “I hired a pair of horses for us from a stable near the south gate of the city. If anybody’s waitin’ for us to take our own mounts they’re going to be disappointed.”
“As they should be,” Thulmann said. “I’ll have none of Zerndorff’s dogs meddling in my business.” With the uncertain political climate in the temple of Sigmar and the upper echelons of its witch hunters, Thulmann knew there would be even more spies and informants abroad than usual, each eager to catch some morsel of information their masters might find of use. The change in horses, the early hour and the crude clothing both men had adopted by way of disguise should cause at least enough confusion to see them free of Altdorf without any undue interference.
When they reached the street, Thulmann cast one last look back at the Blacktusk and the window of his room. He thought again of Silja Markoff and how peacefully she slept. Then he thought of the monster he was going to see, the monster who had robbed him of so much in the past, and who now stole from him whatever happiness he might have claimed with Silja.
Fiery twilight smouldered on the horizon before their destination rose up before them. They had followed a cautious, circuitous route, leaving by Altdorf s most southerly gate, and riding a winding path that turned in upon itself several times, circling their way past the numerous small towns and villages scattered beyond the walls of the city. The witch hunter showed extreme care while they travelled, constantly watching for any sign that they were being followed.
Their destination was an island, a jagged fang of rock rising from the middle of the River Reik. The rough grey rocks were capped by an immense structure, its fang-like towers apparently stabbing vindictively at the starlit sky. A palpable atmosphere of suffering and misery drifted down to them from the island fortress as they drew near.
The ferryman was not hard to find in the encroaching gloom, the light from his house the only sign of life along the desolate shore. A scrawny boy led their horses into a large stable building while the ferryman lit a lantern and led the way to the large flat-bottomed skiff. Thulmann hesitated as he saw the boat, and his hand unconsciously closed around the small hammer icon hanging from his neck, the holy symbol of Sigmar.
The river was shallow along a narrow expanse, stretching from the shore to the rocky island. The ferryman propelled his skiff through the water with a long pole, pushing them ever closer to their goal. The feeling of misery grew as the craggy grey rocks and crushing architecture of the fortress drew nearer. Streng blanched as the grim influence washed over him, retrieving a small flask from his boot and taking a liberal pull on its contents.
A small wood jetty projected from the base of the rocky cliff, a long winding stair snaking its way up towards the fortress perched on the island’s summit. Two soldiers watched them with keen interest as the skiff drew near. Streng recognised the funnel-mouthed contraption one of the pair held as a blunderbuss, a murderous weapon infamous for its ability to butcher multiple foes with a single shot. The man trained the weapon on them, his face as expressionless as a stone mask.
“I have business with the castellan,” Thulmann told the soldiers as the skiff came to a rest beside the jetty. The two guards remained silent, studying the coarse, ox-hide coat and scruffy clothing Thulmann had adopted. “Tell him that Herr Grübel is here,” he added. It was an old alias. He didn’t want anyone knowing of his visits to the Reiksfang. The soldier without the blunderbuss turned, stalking into the small shack nestled between the jetty and the stairs. A moment later he reappeared, a slip of parchment in his fingers. He placed it in a small clay jar, its rim attached to a slender rope that rose up into the darkness. The soldier glanced at Thulmann, and then struck a large brass bell. The jar began to rise as the rope was pulled up.
Long minutes passed. The guards remained immobile, the blunderbuss still fixed in the direction of the skiff. The ferryman sat at the far end of his little boat, ready to drop into the river if the soldier started to fire.
Thulmann closed his eyes and thought about what he had come to do. Perhaps the castellan would not admit him? Perhaps the man he had come to see had finally died? The witch hunter dismissed both possibilities, refusing to deceive himself with such desperate and foundless hope. The castellan would admit him. Thulmann knew too much about the man for him to do anything else. The prisoner would still be here, alive, because Morr would not admit such scum into his kingdom.
At last, the clay jar reappeared, dropping from the darkness as if by magic. The guard withdrew a slip of parchment from the vessel. He read it for a moment and nodded to his companion. Streng gasped in relief as he saw the soldier turn his blunderbuss away.
“Herr Grübel,” the first guard was saying as Thulmann stepped up onto the jetty, “welcome to Reiksfang prison.”
The sprawling bulk of the prison fortress loomed above their heads as Thulmann and Streng made their way deeper into the heart of the Reiksfang. Streng had drained his flask of schnapps, yet still he could not keep the hairs on the back of his neck from crawling. The Reiksfang was perhaps the most infamous structure in Reikland, if not the Empire. Once consigned to the black depths of the Reiksfang, few would ever see the light of day again. Disease, malnourishment and despair were the great killers within the prison, running rampant through its close, confined labyrinth of halls. With the onset of winter, hundreds of the miserable wretches would perish from the frosty chill that would sink into the cramped, lightless cells.
The castellan’s meeting with Thulmann had been brief. The aged officer had been quick to hand over a set of keys to his unwelcome visitor, and then hurried back to the upper reaches of the Reiksfang’s central tower. One of the keys served to unlock a heavy iron-bound door, exposing a narrow stairway that wound its way deep into the bedrock. With only a small torch to light their way, the two men had descended. The eerie silence of their passage was broken only by the occasional muffled moan, reaching to them through the stone from the network of cells and dungeons just beyond the walls of the stairwell.
In years past, the lord and master of the Reiksfang had been the notorious Judge Vaulkberg, a power-mad magistrate who had terrorised the Reikland for decades with his sadistic and brutal brand of justice. Vaulkberg had ordered special dungeons excavated far beneath the main prison, so deep within the roots of the rock that they were below even the level of the river. It was here that Vaulkberg confined his choicest prisoners, those who had in some way earned his personal enmity.
Down, ever down the stairs wound, until at last the chill of the river began to turn their breath to frost. Streng stifled a sneeze with the sleeve of his tunic. The stair twisted around one final corner and stopped before a massive steel door. Thulmann hesitated a moment, and then fumbled among the keys the castellan had given him before selecting the one that would open the portal.
Beyond was a long corridor, stretching away into the gloom beneath the Reiksfang. Heavy steel doors were interspersed along the stone walls of the passage. A few torches sputtered and crackled in sconces set into the walls, their light illuminating the condensation seeping through the walls and dripping from the roof.
Streng tried to stifle another sneeze and failed, and the sound of his affliction rolled down the silent corridor like thunder. Thulmann cast an annoyed look at his companion and then returned his attention to the passageway. One of the steel doors creaked open, slapping against the wall with a metallic ring. An immense hand gripped the edge of the doorframe. A gigantic arm followed it and then a huge bulk pushed its way through the opening,
bent nearly double to fit through the doorway. Streng fingered his sword nervously, and then realised that the weapon would be about as much use as a letter opener when the creature emerged fully into the corridor and straightened to its full height. It had been many years, and he’d forgotten the gruesome aspect of the secret dungeon’s special gaoler.
The monster was immense, easily twice the height of either of the men and as broad as an ox. Two complete bearskins had been stitched together to form the long fur coat it wore. One foot was shod in a leather boot, the other nothing more than a steel-capped peg fixed to the iron rod that had replaced the creature’s right leg from the knee down. Yellowed tusks jutted from its enormous mouth, a deep scar bisected the side of its broad nose and a scabby black burn pitted the left side of its face from cheekbone to scalp. In his years serving with the Count of Ostland’s army, Streng had seen many ogres, but none as hideous as Ghunder.
The ogre stared at the men, his nostrils flaring wildly as he snorted down their scent. Streng found himself backing away towards the stairs as the ogre rumbled forwards but Thulmann held his ground, meeting Ghunder’s formidable stare. The ogre’s peg clapped against the floor as he strode towards the men, the sound stretching away into the unseen limits of the dungeon. Streng could see the powerful muscles rippling beneath the ogre’s fur coat and shuddered as he recalled some of the stories that were still told about Ghunder in Reikland taverns when the hour was late. Ghunder had served Judge Vaulkberg as his chief executioner, lopping off heads with such violence that they shot away from their bodies like corks from a bottle.
“Key,” Ghunder growled, his deep voice vibrating through the passageway. The ogre extended his enormous hand to Thulmann. The witch hunter nodded, placing the ring of keys in the monster’s palm. Ghunder turned, hobbling across the passage towards one of the cells. Thulmann found his eyes locked on the door, the only thing still remaining between him and the thing that haunted his darkest nightmares.
[Mathias Thulmann 03] - Witch Killer Page 7
