Witch Killer

by C. L. Werner

  ‘There’s someone he’s going to see,’ the mercenary said. ‘Someone he should’ve killed and had done with a long time ago.’

  Streng returned to his bottle and refused to elaborate on what he had told her.

  The witch hunter awoke with a start, his face dripping with perspiration. He rose from the bed, his limbs shaking as the nightmare slowly drained from him. He was just reaching for the small jug of water when a pounding knock sounded at the door of his cabin.

  ‘Brother Mathias,’ Ehrhardt’s deep voice sounded from the other side of the door. ‘Come on deck at once.’ Thulmann pulled open the door, finding the knight’s armoured bulk blotting out what little light flickered in the corridor.

  ‘Sigmar’s grace,’ the witch hunter swore. ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’

  ‘No,’ the knight replied. ‘There is a strange ship two hundred yards astern.’

  ‘Probably another merchantman waiting for the sun to come up,’ Thulmann said.

  Ehrhardt shook his head. ‘Not this one,’ he said. ‘Something doesn’t feel right about it.’

  Thulmann nodded, stalking back into his cabin to put on his boots and gather his weapons. He was not one to dismiss a man’s misgivings out of hand; the supernatural often heralded itself with perceptions of unease and dread. The witch hunter followed the knight down the corridor and back on deck. Ehrhardt’s misgivings seemed to be shared by no small number of the crew, the men clustering along the rail and pointing nervous fingers across the dark water.

  What they pointed to was the dark silhouette of a ship, a fat-bodied merchantman not unlike the Arnhelm. There was no denying that there was something menacing about the vessel. Thulmann overheard one of the sailors give voice to the most obvious enigma the unnamed ship presented. There was no evidence of anyone on her decks and not a single running light gleamed from its hull. Any river trader at night, especially one at anchor, should be ablaze with lanterns and torches, proclaiming its presence and reducing the risk of a collision.

  Noticing Thulmann among the growing crowd, Streng pushed his way from the rail and strode to his employer’s side. ‘Ill-favoured boat, I’ll give ’em that,’ the mercenary commented. ‘Some of the crew are all for sendin’ her to the bottom. They’ve a cannon positioned in one of the holds for stickin’ holes in the hulls of river pirates.’

  ‘A bit drastic for a ship that’s done nothing but sit there and look sinister,’ Silja commented, having followed after Streng as he pushed his way through the crowd of sailors. Thulmann felt an icy trickle along his spine as fragments of his nightmare returned to him, but managed to keep the feeling off his face.

  ‘Even for a witch hunter, that would be extreme,’ Thulmann agreed. ‘Although there are some I’ve known who have done worse on even more nebulous grounds. Just the same, I think it might be wise if we lowered a longboat and I had a look at that hulk. At least then we might learn if our fears are justified.’

  Concern filled Silja’s eyes. ‘You don’t mean to go over there alone?’

  Thulmann chuckled in amusement. ‘I’m a faithful servant of Lord Sigmar, not a suicidal hero,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Ehrhardt, Streng and whatever sailors have the stomach to face their–’

  Thulmann’s face contorted in disgust. Around him the crew’s did likewise. Silja covered her nose with her hand, wincing at the terrible smell that assaulted them.

  ‘What in the name of Manann is that reek?’ Captain van Sloan’s voice barked from the quarterdeck. Before anyone could answer the Marienburger, a scream rose from one of the sailors. Illuminated by the moonlight, a number of shambling shapes were pulling themselves over the portside rail, their clothes hanging from their bodies in dank, dripping folds. In less light, they might have been mistaken for men, but Mannsleib was full and there was no mistaking their lifeless state. Many of them sported ghastly wounds, and the flesh of others was split and decaying. Nor could there be any question about the stink rolling off them, the corruption of rotting meat.

  Thulmann drew his sword. ‘Steel yourselves!’ he cried. ‘If you would save your flesh and your souls, strike these abominations. Strike in the name of holy Sigmar!’

  Ehrhardt was the first to close with the zombies, his immense blade crunching through the torso of something wearing the ragged remains of a priest’s robe. The butchered carcass spilled across the deck, putrid organs flopping from the mutilating wound. The knight hacked the arm from a second zombie as it shuffled forwards. The undead monstrosity did not notice the injury and set the belaying pin clutched in its remaining hand cracking against Ehrhardt’s helm.

  Thulmann hurried to Ehrhardt’s side, slashing the legs out from under his attacker, and then removing its head with a twist of his blade. Some of the crew were overcoming their terror and closing with the zombies with billhooks, daggers and even lengths of chain. Thulmann caught sight of Streng over his shoulder. ‘Get some of the crew below and fire that cannon!’ he snarled. He was certain their attackers had come from the strange ship. It was probable that whatever fiend was guiding them had remained behind, preferring to orchestrate the attack from afar.

  The slack-jawed thing that slashed at Thulmann with a sword caused the witch hunter to recoil in disgust. Despite the decay gnawing away at it, there was no mistaking the face of old Eldred from the Wurtbad chapter house. Before Thulmann could react, the zombie’s blade was slashing at him again. He flung himself back from the zombie’s attack. The creature shuffled forwards after its prey, but found Silja’s sword crunching into its breastbone. Silja freed her weapon with a savage tug that sent Eldred’s zombie falling to the deck. As the zombie awkwardly began to rise, she severed its spine, leaving it twitching on the planks.

  Thulmann had no time to thank Silja for her help. The decks were swarming with zombies. At least two score of the things had pulled themselves from the river and a few stragglers were still climbing up the portside. Thulmann was thrown through the air, crashing against the side of the forecastle with such force that lights danced before his eyes. He groaned as he rolled onto his side, and then groaned again as he saw what had attacked him.

  ‘Surprised to see me, Mathias?’ the pale-faced creature snarled as he stalked towards the witch hunter. Gregor’s face was twisted into an almost inhuman mask of rage. One of the crew tried to stop the vampire as he prowled across the deck. Gregor seized the man’s sword arm, breaking it with a single twist of his wrist. ‘Are you not pleased to see the fruit of your carelessness? The spawn of your timidity?’ The vampire reached down to seize Thulmann by his tunic, lifting the witch hunter from the deck.

  ‘Where is the book?’ Gregor hissed.

  ‘Don’t do this, Gregor!’ Thulmann pleaded, his heart cracking beneath the weight of the guilt swelling up within him. ‘Let me help you find peace again!’ Thulmann fumbled at his belt, struggling to drag one of his pistols from its holster.

  ‘The peace of an uncertain grave?’ Gregor snarled, shaking the witch hunter like a rag doll. ‘The oblivion of the undead for all eternity!’

  The pistol fell from Thulmann’s fingers as the vampire shook him again. ‘I’ve had a taste of your charity, Mathias. I will save myself my way! Where is the book?’

  The deck of the Arnhelm trembled as the cannon roared from below decks. Shortly afterwards the crack of timber sounded from across the river. The cheers of Streng’s gun crew rose through the planks. The vampire paid the turmoil no notice, tightening his grip on Thulmann, strangling the witch hunter with his own clothes.

  ‘Alive or dead, he will find out what he wants to know from you!’ Gregor snarled.

  ‘You… will… be… damned…’ Thulmann wheezed as the air began to burn within his lungs.

  ‘I already am,’ Gregor said. ‘He will set me free!’

  The vampire threw back his head and roared in agony, dropping Thulmann to the deck. The witch hunter sucked in deep lungfuls of air, clutching his injured neck. He saw Silja standing behind Gregor, Thulmann’s silvered sword
clenched in her hands. She had been paying attention during the fight with Sibbechai in Wolfram Kohl’s home and knew that normal weapons would not harm a vampire, but blessed ones like Thulmann’s would. The slimy treacle seeping from Gregor’s side told the rest of the story.

  ‘Stay out of this!’ Gregor roared at her. ‘Don’t come between me and the templar!’ Thulmann could see the terror in Silja’s eyes as the vampire snarled at her, but felt proud to see her hold her ground, to see his sword still clenched in her hands. The vampire lunged at her with unholy speed. Gregor’s flesh smoked as he swatted the sword from her grasp. With the back of his hand, Gregor split Silja’s lip and spilled her to the deck. The vampire glared hungrily at the stunned woman, at the blood trickling from her wound.

  ‘Keep away from her, Gregor!’ Thulmann drew his remaining pistol, aiming it at the vampire’s head. The man he had known was gone. All that was left of him was this abomination, this unholy slave of Sibbechai. He felt regret and guilt that he had not destroyed Gregor’s remains when he had the chance. This time nothing would keep him from doing a proper job. The witch hunter pulled the trigger of his gun. The hammer fell, clicking noisily against the steel. Thulmann looked down in horror. Misfire! Over the course of the struggle the firing cap had come loose.

  Gregor spun and pounced on him like a wild beast, crushing him to the deck. The vampire’s fangs glistened inches from his face, his unclean breath washing across Thulmann’s features.

  ‘I don’t want to kill you,’ Gregor said. ‘I only want the book!’

  ‘No,’ Thulmann retorted. ‘It is the fiend who made you what you are that wants the book!’

  Shouts of confusion rose from the melee beyond them and Thulmann could hear heavy bodies striking the water. A look of despair and confusion came over Gregor’s face and he turned his head in the direction of the other ship.

  The vampire looked back down at Thulmann. ‘I’ll come for it again,’ Gregor warned, rising and stalking back towards the side of the ship. ‘Next time there may not be enough of me left to care how I get it.’

  Thulmann scrambled for his other pistol where it had fallen on the deck, but by the time he recovered it, the vampire was gone. The zombies were gone too, at least those that had not been destroyed by the crew.

  ‘Damndest thing I’ve ever seen,’ Ehrhardt said as he strode towards Thulmann. ‘One minute they are full of fight, the next, they turn tail and rush back over the side.’

  ‘There’s your answer,’ Thulmann said, pointing at the other ship. It was listing badly as water rushed into the two ragged holes the cannon fire had blasted into its hull. ‘It seems I was right about the power behind this attack being on that ship. Clearly he’s not terribly keen on the idea of sinking and called back his slaves to try and salvage the ship.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Silja asked, carefully rubbing her bruised jaw.

  ‘We make certain that thing goes straight to the bottom and everything that goes down with her stays down with her,’ Thulmann declared. But even as he said the words, the efforts of Captain van Sloan’s orders began to bear fruit. The Arnhelm was under sail once more. It seemed the captain had reconsidered braving the narrows by night.

  For the better part of ten minutes Thulmann argued, demanded, ordered and bullied the captain, trying to get him to bring his vessel about and go back to ensure that the sinister ship and its passengers were destroyed. But even the captain’s fear of witch hunters and the Order of Sigmar could not overcome his fear of the undead. Unable to captain the ship himself, Thulmann had no choice but to watch in frustration as they sped upriver and the sinking hulk slowly slipped from view.

  ‘You knew that monster?’ Silja asked.

  ‘He was Gregor Klausner once,’ Thulmann replied, ‘a valued friend and ally. Now he is a slave to the thing that killed him.

  ‘It seems that we once again find a common purpose. I too would like to know where Das Buch die Unholden has gone.’

  The musty stink of fur and raw earth filled the narrow tunnel. They had been travelling for a week through the cavernous network of passages and burrows that connected the far-flung strongholds of the skaven realms. The journey had been one of gruelling monotony, punctuated by moments of absolute terror. They had endured attacks by packs of enormous rats, ambushes by crazed escaped slaves, tunnel collapses and horrifying swims through icy underground streams. They had even been attacked by some massive blind creature that resembled an enormous mole! After seeing what the creature had done to a pair of Skilk’s stormvermin, Weichs found a new appreciation for the word ‘mutilation’.

  The scientist’s fear was compounded by the attentions of his ally. The grey seer’s command of written Reikspiel was poor, yet the sorcerer-priest had recognised exactly what the book was. Every time the skaven had stopped to rest, Skilk had demanded Weichs work on the book, only relenting when the former physician presented the grey seer with several translated rituals. The attrition rate of their warrior bodyguard climbed each time Skilk tested new spells from the book.

  At last, just when Weichs was beginning to think the ordeal would never end, they reached their destination. The tunnel they had been following for the past day was narrower than any they had thus far travelled, barely wide enough to allow three skaven to pass through it side by side. The barren walls of the tunnel had begun to display the scratchy writing of the underfolk, and Weichs could sense the feverish excitement of his ally/captor as the symbols became more frequent. Some time later, the tunnel widened, opening into the gaping mouth of a barred gateway. Several black-furred guards stood poised around the gate, their whiskers twitching as they caught the scent of Skilk’s entourage, their eyes gleaming weirdly in the green glow of the warpstone lamps around them.

  Grey Seer Skilk strode towards the gate, his crook-backed figure deceptively frail in the eerie light. The skaven wore no armour, dressed instead in a ragged cloak of grey. Skilk’s grey fur was speckled with black, and the horns on his head stabbed upwards, curling in on themselves. The grey seer barked commands to the guards. Several abased themselves, while others scrambled through a small door set into the gate. Weichs could feel the tension in the air as Skilk leaned on his staff and waited.

  ‘Master, what it do?’ The half-articulate question came from the slopping, disfigured vocal cords of Lobo, Weichs’s mutant assistant. Some scholars held that halflings were immune to the forces of mutation, but Weichs had proved that with enough warpstone, anything was possible. The little, hunchbacked creature was the only one of his assistants to escape from the disaster in Wurtbad.

  ‘Be still, Lobo,’ Weichs ordered. ‘Just wait and see, and be ready to make a run for it.’

  It was not long before the gates opened and a procession of skaven emerged from what Weichs deduced must be another burrow stronghold. However, these were no warlords and petty chieftains, but a group of robed, horned priests not unlike Skilk himself.

  ‘Skilk crawl home, yes?’ one of the grey seers said, baring its teeth at Skilk. The other grey seers seemed to find great humour in their leader’s scorn, chittering laughter echoing through the tunnel. ‘Find place? Serve Gnatrik now!’

  Skilk’s lips pulled back, exposing his yellowed fangs. ‘Skilk learn much. Now show all Skrittar-kin! Fester Gnatrik-meat!’

  The sneering Gnatrik coiled himself into a bundle of hate-ridden fur and fangs. Weichs could see the unholy light glowing within Gnatrik’s eyes as the sorcerer called magical energy into his body. The grey seer stretched his paw forwards, sending a blast of crackling green light sizzling towards Skilk.

  Skilk responded by hissing one of the new words of power he had learned from Das Buch die Unholden. Skilk’s body seemed to flicker and fade. Gnatrik’s warp lightning passed harmlessly through Skilk’s spectral body and incinerated three of the stormvermin behind him.

  ‘Gnatrik-meat die now!’ Skilk snarled as his body became once more a thing of flesh and bone. The ratman swept its paws in a complicated series of
gestures, daemonic words burning Skilk’s throat as it forced them into sound. Gnatrik had time for one ear-splitting scream as the scintillating light Skilk had called into being engulfed him. Then the cavern resounded with the sound of tearing flesh and cracking bone. When the light had faded, all that remained of Gnatrik was a puddle of gore and offal. It looked as if some incredible force had literally turned Gnatrik inside out.

  Skilk stalked towards the gory ruin and rubbed his paws into the mess. The other grey seers bowed in obeisance, accepting Skilk as Gnatrik’s successor by right of challenge. The triumphant Skilk turned away from his new minions, striding back towards Weichs.

  ‘Now doktor-man learn more for Skilk!’ the grey seer patted the skin-bound book where it reposed in a sling at its side. ‘Teach Skilk make dead-things speak.’ The skaven laughed as it swaggered back to take command of his new domain.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A pall had settled on the mightiest city in the Empire, a palpable sense of loss that hung heavy in the air. The snapping fangs of doubt and despair followed upon that sense of mourning. Grand Theogonist Volkmar the Grim was dead. The leading priest of Sigmar’s holy temple was gone. More than ever, the future seemed dark and uncertain.

  The streets of the city were far from deserted, although the throng was not quite the teeming morass of humanity that Thulmann had always encountered on his other visits. Their very numbers added to the unreal, spectral air that gripped Altdorf. Those who travelled the streets did so in silence. Not the slightest murmur rose from the crowd, and the few who did speak did so in soft whispers, as if measuring the value of every word. As Thulmann and his companions left the waterfront and passed through a dockyard marketplace, he was treated to the eerie spectacle of two men silently haggling over the price of fish.

  It was not only the spires and towers of Altdorf that had been draped in mourning. Leading the way from the waterfront, Thulmann soon discovered that every window was draped in black, dark cloth hung from every street lamp and nearly every doorway sported a crude griffon image drawn on it in charcoal. The men and women they passed on the streets were similarly dressed, even the beggars displaying at least a black rag tied around their arms. Aristocratic nobleman, scruffy rag collector or fat-bellied banker, the faces of everyone they passed was downturned.