[Mathias Thulmann 03] - Witch Killer

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

  “Yes, grey seer, I have made significant progress!” Weichs said, his words hurried and frantic.

  “Doktor-man speak truth?” Skilk threatened, black paws snatching the translation from Weichs’ hands. The skaven’s hungry eyes scoured the pages of Reikspiel, his twitching nose hovering above the paper as if trying to sniff the ink. “Nice,” Skilk squeaked. “Doktor-man learn words nice.”

  “I live to serve,” Weichs said, bowing his head to the exultant grey seer. Skilk seemed to like the sound of that sentiment, and Weichs knew his life depended on remaining in his good graces. The skaven priest continued to read the translation eagerly and Weichs decided there would be no better time to try and exploit the ratman’s goodwill. “Now that I have translated the spell for you, perhaps you will allow me to resume my experiments. I am very eager to return to my studies and I must confess that I’ve learned more about the dark arts than I ever wanted combing through that insufferable tome.”

  The scientist’s words caused Skilk’s eyes to narrow and the grey seer looked away from the papers in its hands. The ratman’s eyes first focused on Weichs and then shifted to Das Buch die Unholden. The ratman scurried towards the grimoire and lifted it from the table, setting it in the crook of its arm. Weichs felt a thrill of horror as he read the thoughts squirming through Skilk’s mind — the skaven was worried about what else Weichs had translated from the book, what spells the man might have kept to himself.

  “Maybe doktor-man catch much,” Skilk hissed. Weichs felt the colour drain from his features. He decided to misinterpret the grey seer’s meaning.

  “No, there is still much my experiments can tell us,” he insisted. “There is still a great deal to learn. Before we left Wurtbad I was certain I was on the verge of a great discovery, one that would hold enormous benefit for both our peoples.” Weichs held his breath as Skilk digested his words, as the grey seer considered his next decision. At length the grey seer uttered a chittering laugh, turning and stalking out of the cave.

  “Doktor-man make experiment. Learn to make sick,” Skilk told him as he left the makeshift laboratory. At the entrance, Skilk turned, patting the book. “Maybe let doktor-man find words again.” The grey seer laughed and vanished into the blackness of the tunnel.

  Weichs breathed a deep sigh of relief. Let Skilk think he was an idiot. It would make the skaven underestimate him, hopefully relax his guard. Somehow Weichs knew he would have to escape the ratman, preferably before Skilk decided to enact the obscene ritual he had translated for him.

  * * *

  Disgusted, despising himself, the vampire crept back through the shadows, back to the small woodsman’s shack that had become his refuge. The blood of the deer he had killed had done little to satisfy the hunger pounding inside him, but it was all the sustenance he would allow himself. Gregor had grudgingly allowed himself to claim birds, rats and squirrels when the unholy lust became too hideous to endure. Carandini took a sardonic amusement from Gregor’s desperate determination to resist the urge to graduate to higher forms of life.

  Gregor was coming to despise the necromancer as much as Sibbechai. The attack on Thulmann’s ship would have succeeded had it not been for the Tilean’s cowardice, his panic when his own ship began to take on water. Gregor should have left Carandini to drown like the rat he was, but the vampire knew he could not allow the necromancer to die. Carandini was the only man who promised him any measure of hope, who claimed there was a way to purge the evil from Gregor’s soul.

  After dragging themselves from the river, any chance of picking up Thulmann’s trail was quickly lost, but Carandini had said that there were other ways to find someone. All they needed to do was be patient and wait for the moons to become amenable. So they moved from the river to the woods, keeping to the shadows like a pair of wraiths, waiting for Carandini’s moons to align.

  As Gregor drew near the shack, he could feel the fell energies gathered around it. His undead eyes could see wisps of black mist swirling around the structure, slithering between the logs that formed its walls and seeping down through the thatch roof. The necromancer’s voice echoed on the night wind, raised in some profane invocation to the unholy forces of the night. Gregor felt his flesh crawl as he heard the ancient names Carandini cried out. Strangely the vampire found the sensation reassuring — it meant he hadn’t completely forsaken his humanity yet.

  Suddenly the invocation was cut short, silenced by a loud gasp and then a low, hideous gargle. Gregor rushed through the trees with all the supernatural speed his altered body could command. In an instant he was at the door, tearing the heavy oak portal from its hinges and tossing it aside as if it was nothing. Inside the tiny confines of the shack he could see the sheets of flayed skin the necromancer used in his rituals scattered on the floor, black candles shining in the darkness. Carandini himself was writhing on the floor, hands clasped around his throat.

  There was a third hand at Carandini’s throat, closed around it like a python. It was the tattered, withered mummy claw he used in his rituals, the dismembered hand of Nehb-ka-Menthu. Some dreadful power beyond the necromancer’s control animated it, giving it a terrible and malevolent life of its own. Carandini’s face purpled as he fought to suck breath down into his collapsing throat.

  Gregor lunged at the necromancer, seizing the mummy claw. Even with his unnatural strength, Gregor found it hard to pry the claw from Carandini’s throat. At last the foul thing came free. The claw twisted in his grip, its talons ripping into his flesh. Disgusted, Gregor dropped the vile thing to the floor. The hand landed on its back, fingers flailing at the empty air. Then, with a powerful twist of its small finger, the claw flipped onto its palm. Like some mammoth spider, it scurried across the floor.

  Something sharp and silver flashed in the dim light within the shack, stabbing down into the animated claw and pinning it to the floor.

  “The… the winds… blow strongly” Carandini rasped, releasing his grip on the dagger he’d used to impale the mummy’s hand. He began to massage his torn and bloody neck. “Too… much. It slipped from my control.”

  Gregor looked at the necromancer, and then back to the still struggling claw. Some sign of his horror must have shown on his face, because Carandini laughed.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said. “I am quite all right.”

  Gregor chafed under the necromancer’s grim amusement. “You should be more careful, sorcerer. I can’t have you dying on me. I am lost without you.”

  Carandini’s face spilt into a weasel’s smile. “Yes, I am quite aware of that fact,” the necromancer said, “but this evening’s experiment proved most useful, for all of its hazards.” He turned his eyes again to the squirming mummy claw and some of the bravado slipped from his demeanour.

  “I was granted a vision before Nehb-ka-Menthu’s spirit became strong enough to prove uncooperative,” Carandini stated. “I saw a clearing with three huge grey stones, perhaps the ruin of one of the standing circles your barbarian ancestors used to build.”

  “The book you need is there?” Gregor asked. Carandini shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Wherever the book is being kept, it is in a place where the spirits will not go. Instead, I asked how we might find the witch hunter again. In answer I was shown the clearing and the stones.”

  “Where is this place?” Gregor demanded after considering the necromancer’s words.

  “I will be able to find it, do not trouble yourself on that account,” Carandini replied. “The vision would have been of little merit otherwise. Perhaps it is a force kindred to what drew you after Sibbechai, or perhaps something as simple as what moves the birds south when Ulric’s bite is in the air, but I will be able to lead us to the place. The only thing I do not know is how long we might need to wait there for our quarry to show himself.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Gregor said.

  Carandini stepped towards the struggling claw, pulling it from the floor and dropping both claw and dagger into a large
leather satchel. There was an evil glint in his eyes when he turned back to Gregor. “You know we’ll have to kill the witch hunter when we catch up with him again.”

  Gregor stared hard at the grey shadow world around him, at the beckoning glow of Carandini’s blood shining within his veins. He thought of the unliving claw of Nehb-ka-Menthu, still bound to the earth aeons after its death. He wouldn’t allow himself to exist like this, in the obscene world of the undead.

  “Whatever it takes,” Gregor repeated.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The journey south through the Reikland was a forlorn, forbidding one. With winter’s chill in the air, there was far less traffic on the roads, and the landscape was a desolate shadow of its green exuberance and golden abundance. Brown fields stood barren after the harvest. The lush greenery of the woods was gone, smothered by the clinging frost that lingered long into the afternoon. The few travellers they encountered had their forms and voices muffled beneath heavy layers of fur and wool. At night, the haunting howls of wolves pierced the darkness, the savage cries replacing the whistle of night birds and the clatter of crickets as less hardy creatures abandoned the land to the coming cold.

  It was not only the surroundings that made the travel tense and uneasy. The expedition was anything but a homogenous enterprise, but rather a group cast together by the politicking of Sforza Zerndorff and his lofty ambitions. There was little enough love lost between Thulmann and Krieger, he and his henchmen keeping themselves to themselves both on the road and in camp. Haussner’s flagellants followed a similar example, sprinting behind the riders during the day, and then lashing their exhausted bodies with their whips until they collapsed from fatigue every night when the witch hunters made camp. Thulmann marvelled that the fanatics could maintain such a gruelling, brutal regime day after day, but as his respect for their devotion to Sigmar grew, his apprehension about their twisted vision of reality grew as well.

  Silja remarked that it was as well that Krieger could maintain control of Haussner and his men. Thulmann found the observation of little comfort. He was far too familiar with Krieger’s methods. Krieger might control Haussner, but who would control Krieger?

  Nestled along the slopes of several rolling hills, flanked on two sides by the lush growth of the Thrungiwald forest, the town of Wyrmvater basked in the late afternoon sun. It was a small clutch of half-timbered structures, surrounded by fields of grain and bisected at its centre by a swift-moving stream. Even from a distance, Thulmann could see that the buildings in the town were very old, displaying a style of architecture that had fallen out of fashion centuries before. Thulmann could feel the weight of the town’s antiquity pressing upon him the nearer they drew to it. He could see squat little grubenhauses scattered between the fields of crops beyond the town, simple structures of thatch and clay no different in any respect from those that men had dwelt in before even Sigmar had walked the land.

  “Doesn’t look like they’re too happy to see us.” Streng gestured with his crossbow towards the town beyond. Thulmann could see people rushing from the fields, abandoning their labours and racing back to the safety of the town’s timber walls. Some manner of bell or gong could be heard ringing and at the town gates a small group of armed figures was assembling.

  “I rather see your point, friend Streng,” Thulmann said.

  “Perhaps they think we’re bandits,” Silja suggested.

  The remark brought a withering sneer to Haussner’s lips. “We are holy servants of Sigmar, as any fool can see!” Haussner glared at Silja, his anger only swelling when she did not back down from his gaze. “Bandits indeed!” he finally snarled.

  “However preposterous it might seem,” Krieger said, “we had better make allowances if we can’t convince these people who we are.” He snapped his fingers and both Driest and Gernheim dismounted. The sharpshooter Driest pulled the elegant Hochlander rifle from its saddle holster and settled into position behind a small rock pile beside the road. Gernheim, the scarred swordsman, removed his own weapon from his saddle. Nearly the height of a man, the lightning-shaped zweihander was hardly the weapon of a mounted fighter. Gernheim stalked ahead of the witch hunters several yards down the road and took up position. Captain-Justicar Ehrhardt dropped down from his own horse and joined Krieger’s man on the road. Looking on the two massive warriors and their deadly weapons, Thulmann hoped the people of Wyrmvater would see reason.

  It would cost them much blood to wrest their road back from two such fighters.

  “Silja, stay close to Streng and keep an eye on our flank,” Thulmann said. “I don’t want any surprises popping up from those fields.” He really didn’t think they were in any danger of a flanking action, but Thulmann knew giving Silja a task would be more effective than another concerned injunction for her to keep back and keep safe. “Lajos, I want you up here with me.”

  The little strigany stopped scratching at his uncomfortable garments. “Couldn’t… wouldn’t it be better if I…”

  “With me, Lajos,” Thulmann said. “You’ve dealt with these people before. You can talk to them.”

  Lajos began to wring his much abused hat through his hands again. “That… it might be better… I should stay here and make sure our line of retreat is open.”

  “Lajos, up here,” Thulmann repeated. “These people know you. They see you and they will know we aren’t bandits.”

  Lajos rolled his eyes and slowly walked his mule forwards. They spot me and they’ll know we’re bandits,” he muttered under his breath.

  The armed group at the gates of the city had grown to nearly two score men. Thulmann saw the afternoon sun gleaming off a surprising number of weapons. He’d expected whatever force the town could muster to be armed mostly with farming implements and hunting spears. More men were standing behind the timber walls on a palisade, an assortment of bows and crossbows clutched in their hands. Perhaps his disdain for the warcraft of Wyrmvater’s leadership had been erroneous. He only hoped it was not fatally so.

  Wyrmvater’s militia parted as a mounted figure emerged from the gate and then the iron-banded timber doors swung shut, sealing off the town. The group advanced slowly, warily, down the road towards them.

  “Hold your ground,” Krieger ordered, his words directed mainly at Haussner and his mendicant fanatics. “We’re past the range of their archers here. Whatever happens, don’t let them draw you closer.” The witch hunter turned his head and called over to the rock pile. “Driest, can you hit the walls from here?”

  “Just say the word and I’ll start carving notches,” the sharpshooter responded, his head cocked above the length of his rifle, his eye almost resting against the smooth metal as he sighted his weapon.

  “Let us pray it does not come to that,” Thulmann said.

  “Keep faith in Sigmar, but hobble your horse,” Krieger replied, repeating an old adage that warned against bothering the gods with the petty concerns that a man should see to himself. The almost flippant tone in Krieger’s voice sickened Thulmann. The lives of the innocent, frightened townfolk didn’t matter to Krieger, to him they were simply an obstacle to be overcome. If they had to butcher half the town, it would be of little consequence to the man.

  Thulmann turned from Krieger in disgust, watching instead the slow advance of the militia. The distance between them and the witch hunters diminished steadily. Thulmann could make out greater details now. While they wore no armour, the men bore weapons that might have been the envy of most state regiments: sharp-bladed halberds and poleaxes, leaf-headed spears and steel-tipped bills. However, for all the sophistication of their weapons, the militia approached in a disordered fashion, lacking in precision and drill. Still, they were disciplined enough to stop well before reaching Ehrhardt and Gernheim, and well before leaving the range of their own archers on the town walls.

  “Skaranorak’s black bones!” Krieger swore. “Now we’ll have to do it the hard way. Driest.”

  Thulmann grabbed Krieger’s arm before the other witch
hunter could give the order to his man. “They are just being cautious, trying to protect their lands and their families,” he said. “Let me go forward and speak with them.”

  “You’ll be within range of their bowfire,” Krieger stated, shaking his head. “If they don’t listen to you, you’ll never make it back before they are all over you. And don’t think I’d risk any of my people becoming pincushions trying to get to you. Better to sit tight and get them to make the first move. If they know we can hit them even from here, they may prove more cooperative.”

  “At least let me try and reason with them,” Thulmann persisted. “Besides, I’d think you’d be rather eager to get rid of me; no one to share Zerndorff’s appreciation.” Krieger smiled as Thulmann made the remark and then extended his hand towards the roadway in a gesture that seemed to say “be my guest”.

  Thulmann walked his horse slowly forwards. “Come along, Lajos,” he called back when he noticed the merchant’s mule was not beside him.

  “I can see things perfectly well from here,” Lajos said. “Good luck, Herr Thulmann. My best wishes go with you!”

  Thulmann brought his horse to a halt, turning in his saddle to look back at Lajos. The fat little man withered under his stern gaze, trying to muster a friendly wave of his fingers to appease the angry witch hunter. “Brother Peder, if that fat strigany trash isn’t at my side in the next few seconds, you have my leave to execute him.”

  “You’re certain we’re in no danger?” Lajos asked for what seemed the fiftieth time since they had ridden past Gernheim and Ehrhardt. Thick streams of nervous sweat plastered the merchant’s hair to his forehead, while the hat in his hands was contorted into a rumpled coil of fabric.