Witch Killer

by C. L. Werner

  On Thulmann’s left, Kristoph Krieger seemed unmoved by anything the burgomeister said. As far as he was concerned, these were peasants, and nothing they had to say was worthy of deep consideration. Thulmann could see that Reinheckel was growing more and more irritated by Krieger’s indifference, but at least Krieger hadn’t made things worse by inviting Haussner to the sit-down.

  ‘It is a sorry fact that the forces of Chaos so often afflict the most innocent,’ Thulmann replied. ‘The corruption takes sanctuary in the love and pity of good, decent men. That is one of the greatest strengths of the Dark Gods.’ The witch hunter shook his head. ‘The duty of a templar is to protect the people of Sigmar’s holy empire, and our duty is never more onerous than in situations such as this, when we must stand against our own wishes. Mercy is a temptation that has loosed many a daemon upon the land.’

  Reinheckel nodded his head grimly. ‘Believe me, Brother Mathias, I do understand. I understand you have no choice in the matter. You must do what is good for us all.’

  ‘Knowing why something must be done does not make it any easier,’ Thulmann cautioned, ‘but the ruinous powers must be opposed, wherever they might manifest.’

  The burgomeister took another sip from his stein. ‘One of our woodsmen, a fellow named Naschy, says he saw some strange things near an old ruined shrine about a half-day’s ride from town, and thought you should be told.’

  ‘Why the deuce do you bother us with this prattle about mutant-whelps and heretic tanners when you’ve more important news?’ Krieger snapped, causing Reinheckel to recoil from him. ‘What sort of “things” did this peasant-wretch claim to see?’

  ‘He heard them before he saw anything,’ Reinheckel said, ‘shrill, scratching noises, like the hissing of beasts but somehow different, as if there was something of speech within all the chirps and squeaks. Then he saw them, four or five ghastly things creeping around the old ruins. He says they were covered in fur, but walked upright like men: gruesome mixtures of man and animal. Naschy was frozen to the spot in horror but fortunately, the monsters did not see him.’

  ‘What happened then?’ Krieger asked.

  ‘Naschy watched them for a while. They seemed to be collecting something, gathering weeds from around the stones. After a time, the monsters withdrew, retreating into a big hole in the ground. Naschy said it looked like a big badger burrow.’

  ‘An interesting account to be certain,’ Thulmann said. ‘It might be worth looking into. You know where this place is?’

  ‘No, at least I have never been there myself,’ Reinheckel said, ‘but I can fetch Naschy and have him guide you to the spot.’

  ‘Then do so,’ Krieger said, ‘before we lose any more of the day to empty chatter.’

  ‘Please, burgomeister, if you would send for Naschy,’ Thulmann said. ‘If there is anything behind his story, we should look into it without delay.’

  ‘Of course, Brother Mathias,’ Reinheckel said, rising from his chair. ‘I will have Naschy waiting for you at the town hall within the hour. Good day, Brother Mathias, Brother Kristoph.’ Thulmann watched the town official withdraw from the inn and turned to regard Krieger.

  ‘You might try to be at least somewhat pleasant to these people,’ he said. ‘After Haussner’s display last night we hardly need to do anything else to antagonise them.’

  ‘I leave grovelling to peasants to those with the stomach for it,’ Krieger retorted. ‘These backwater pigsties are a blight on the Empire, a breeding ground for the sort of ignorance and superstition that keeps our land under the influence of Old Night.’

  ‘They are people,’ Thulmann protested, ‘citizens of the Empire, no different from those in Altdorf or Nuln or any of the great cities.’

  ‘You think so?’ Krieger shook his head. ‘I know different. My family has a very long history, a very long and proud tradition of serving the temple. For many generations my forefathers pursued Dieter Heydrich, the necromancer. That fiend’s shadow still haunts parts of the Empire. He was born in such a backwoods as Wyrmvater.’

  Thulmann was silent for a moment, fixing Krieger with an intense look. ‘I am well aware of Dieter Heydrich’s atrocities. I also know that the great cities can produce monsters every bit as terrible.’ He found his mind returning to the streets of Bechafen, turning up the little lane leading to his house where Erasmus Kleib waited for him with his wife and daughter.

  Krieger chose to say nothing, sipping instead at his wine. ‘Does it strike you as terribly convenient? The burgomeister’s little story I mean?’

  ‘On that, at least, we can agree,’ Thulmann replied. ‘It’s suspicious that this Naschy should only come forward the morning after Brother Peder’s little display. One might say the timing is a bit off to be entirely coincidence.’

  ‘A trap then?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Thulmann said, considering the possibility, ‘but the question is, a trap set by whom?’

  ‘You suspect Weichs?’

  ‘Or his skaven masters,’ Thulmann added. ‘If their lair is near here, they would have agents keeping tabs on Wyrmvater. Naschy may be one of them.’

  ‘So what do you propose we do, Brother Mathias?’ Krieger took a final sip from his glass, turning it upside down and setting it on the table. ‘It would be a pity to ignore so obvious an invitation.’

  Thulmann smiled at his fellow witch hunter. ‘Then we agree upon something else,’ he said.

  The witch hunters left Wyrmvater’s town hall, arranging to meet with Naschy at the town gate once they had gathered their gear and mobilised their followers. As soon as they were back at the Splintered Shield, Thulmann began making his own arrangements. With Krieger and Haussner bellowing out orders to their men, Thulmann discussed preparations with his own entourage, meeting with them in the new room he had been given by Schieller.

  ‘We’ve had a bit of luck,’ Thulmann told them. ‘One of the locals claims to have seen strange creatures lurking around some old ruins in the woods. From his description, they sound very much like skaven.’

  ‘Rather fortuitous,’ Ehrhardt commented.

  ‘Brother Kristoph and myself feel it is,’ Thulmann agreed. ‘Too much so, but it is also an opportunity we can’t pass up.’

  ‘What if it is a trap, Mathias?’ Silja protested. Thulmann felt the concern in her voice. It gave him pause for a moment. He never gave much thought to his own welfare when riding out to confront Sigmar’s foes. Now, for the first time he did. Not for himself, but for how his fate might affect Silja. The witch hunter waved aside the distraction. This was a chance to track down Weichs and the grey seer, to recover Das Buch die Unholden before it could be used to plunge the countryside into plague and madness. There were more important things at risk than himself. More important even than Silja.

  ‘If it is a trap, we go into it expecting deceit,’ Thulmann said. ‘That might be enough to turn the tables on anyone waiting to work any mischief.’

  ‘You don’t make that sound terribly convincing,’ Lajos observed. The fat merchant had his hat in his hand again, torturing it out of shape as his nervousness increased.

  ‘It is our best chance to find Weichs,’ Thulmann repeated. ‘He’s close, I can sense it, and if he’s here, the grey seer and the book will be too.’

  ‘Besides, strigany, if anything happens to you, I’ve watched the priests enough to plant you decently.’ Everyone in the room stared at Ehrhardt. Had the Black Guardsman actually made a joke?

  It was Streng who finally broke the awkward silence. ‘Well, if it gets us closer to that mutilating bastard Weichs, you can count me in,’ the mercenary swore.

  ‘Actually, I have something more important to occupy your time,’ Thulmann said. ‘If we really do find a skaven lair in the woods, it will take more men than we have here to attend to it, even if we can count upon the aid of the townsfolk. I need you to ride south to Falkenstein. There is a garrison there. Present these orders to the commander and then lead him back here.’ Thulmann reached into
his tunic and produced a scroll. He handed the document to Streng, who stared at it with distaste. ‘It is a hard ride and there is no one I trust better to make it in good time,’ Thulmann stated. Streng scowled as he accepted the scroll.

  ‘You just remember to save a piece of that maggot-bait for me,’ Streng snarled. ‘No burning Weichs ‘til I have a chance at him.’ The mercenary pushed past Thulmann. They could hear him stomping his way down the stairs as he made for the stables.

  ‘Well, I suppose we should be on our way too,’ Silja announced, rising from her seat at the edge of the bed. Thulmann shook his head.

  ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘This time you will do as I say and stay put. Lajos will stay behind and look after you.’

  ‘I hardly need looking after,’ Silja retorted. ‘I can hold my own, Mathias. I don’t need to be treated like some fragile waif.’

  ‘This is apt to be quite dangerous, like bearding a wyvern in its cave, if my suspicions are correct,’ Thulmann said. ‘I’ll have a hard enough time trying to keep my neck safe. If I’m distracted by trying to keep you safe as well, it is quite likely I’ll get us both killed. I know you are a capable and courageous woman, but if you think that would keep me from worrying about you, then you must think me a very shallow rogue indeed.’ He took a step towards her, closing his hands over hers. ‘Please, Silja, I need you to stay here. I need to know you are safe.’

  Silja looked into Thulmann’s desperate, pleading eyes and slowly nodded her head. She knew he was right. If it really was a trap then the witch hunter would be too concerned with her safety to guard his own.

  ‘I leave her in your care, Lajos,’ Thulmann said. ‘Make certain nothing happens to her.’ The witch hunter turned, embracing Silja. ‘Don’t worry, Sigmar will watch over us. We will not fail.’ He kissed her passionately and then slowly pulled away.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ she said, more to herself than anyone. ‘He has to come back.’ She cast a sidewise look at Lajos. ‘Come along, I want to watch them go.’ When Lajos made no move to follow her, she frowned down at the little man. ‘Mathias told you to keep an eye on me. I don’t think you should disappoint him.’

  The strigany grumbled to himself as he followed Silja from the room. ‘Mathias said a good many things,’ he muttered. ‘Feh! A pox on all witch hunters and their women!’

  The streets of Wyrmvater were crowded with townsfolk watching as Thulmann led his small group of riders from the settlement, Haussner’s dismounted flagellants bringing up the rear. Their mood was sombre – no shouts of encouragement or wishes of good fortune and no garlands tossed to the departing heroes. No, the faces of those who watched the witch hunters go were as stern as stone, rigid and unmoving. There was an air of unspoken resentment around the onlookers, a suggestion of slowly smouldering hostility. Silja shook her head. That was Haussner’s work, poisoning the town against Thulmann with his unreasoning fanaticism. Without Haussner’s draconian tactics, Silja was certain Thulmann would have made the people see that what he was doing was as much to protect them as anyone. Thulmann would have made them see that he was on their side.

  As Silja searched the faces of the crowd for some sign of understanding or sympathy, she found her eyes drawn to a particular countenance. An old man, almost rail-thin with a wild shock of white hair had emerged from a particularly dark alleyway just as the last of Haussner’s flagellants passed through Wyrmvater’s timber gate. There was something about the old man that instantly struck her as familiar, a furtive quality that awoke her suspicion at once. She turned away from the gate and began to move her way through the crowd, trying to keep sight of the old man as she wended her way through the press of bodies. She could hear Lajos grumbling behind her as the little merchant tried to keep up with her.

  The old man took notice of her approach when she was only halfway to him. He pulled his heavy brown coat tighter around his shoulders and began to stalk away. As he turned, Silja had a good look at his profile and knew, knew without question, she had seen that face before. Years spent in the service of her father, the Lord High Justice of Wurtbad, had given Silja an eye for detail and a bear-trap mind that seldom let any of those details slip from her memory. She had seen this man before, and in Wurtbad. Silja felt a wave of red hate pulse through her body as the realisation set in. There was only one person they might expect to find in Wyrmvater who had lately been in Wurtbad.

  ‘Herr Doktor Weichs!’ Silja called out. Instinctively the old man turned around as his name was called. His narrow eyes grew wide with alarm as he realised what he had done. Abandoning all pretence at discreet escape, the plague doktor spun around and took to his heels, shoving shepherds and farmers from his path.

  ‘It is Weichs!’ Silja shouted, drawing the sword from her belt and tearing after the fleeing physician. A string of thick strigany curses sounded behind her as Lajos huffed along after her. ‘Hurry! We have to catch him!’ If they could capture Weichs, there might be no need for Thulmann to risk riding out into a possible trap. The plague doktor would be able to give the witch hunters all the information they needed. There was more than simply bringing justice to the infamous fiend; there was a chance to save the life of the man she loved.

  Silja was just behind Weichs when the old man turned a corner, dashing down a wide stone path that wound its way towards the northern edge of the town.

  Silja smiled. Weichs had made a wrong move; there was no gate in Wyrmvater’s north wall.

  ‘Come on Lajos!’ she called. ‘We have him now!’ The cry seemed to lend speed to the old man’s legs, the plague doktor sprinting several yards ahead as he heard Silja shout. The woman redoubled her efforts, determined not to lose sight of the villain.

  Panting, his insides feeling as if they were on fire, Lajos Dozsa turned the corner, clutching at the stonework for support. He could see Silja running down the path, her elderly quarry a short distance beyond her. The merchant sucked down several deep breaths, bracing himself for another huge effort.

  ‘Lajos! We nearly have him!’ Silja called again.

  ‘How nice,’ Lajos wheezed as he pushed away from the stonework and staggered after the woman. ‘Just what I always wanted, a psychotic heretic of my very own.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The stone path twisted its way past the hovels and storehouses of Wyrmvater, winding its way towards the timber walls, where the buildings dwindled, giving way to animal pens and vegetable gardens. Weichs darted into one of them, scattering swine before him as he struggled to keep his lead on Silja. The woman smiled at the useless effort. The plague doktor was far from physically fit, there was no chance he could outlast his pursuer. All he was doing was dragging out the inevitable.

  Or perhaps not. As Silja leapt into the swine yard, she saw the old man turn yet again, and this time she could see there was definite purpose in his direction. Weichs was trying to reach a ramshackle-looking mill. Silja’s lip curled into a snarl. After all this man had done to her city, after the hideous deeds Thulmann and Streng said he had done, she wasn’t going to let anything stand between the scum and the justice he so deserved.

  Silja sprinted after the fleeing man, trying to intercept him. Cabbages were crushed under her boots, squawking chickens kicked into the air as she scrambled across gardens and crashed through fences. Weichs dragged on his last reserves of strength and lunged towards the timber door of the mill.

  Silja saw the villain’s desperate gambit, smiling as she judged the distance between the old man and the door. She would reach it first, and then Weichs would be hers. She lunged through the slop of another pigpen, the last obstacle between herself and the windmill. As she did so, one of the panicking swine charged into her legs. A coloured curse that would have reddened the face of a Sartosan pirate spilled from Silja’s mouth as she toppled headfirst into the stinking mud.

  The woman scrambled back to her feet, not even hesitating to wipe the mire dripping from her hair down into her face. She could see how dearly the accident had co
st her. What had been certain moments ago was certain no more. Weichs might very well reach the sanctuary of the mill.

  Weichs gasped in terror as the muddy figure of Silja Markoff rose from the pigpen and lunged over the waist-high stockade of sticks that formed the wall of the pen. He felt the fear hammering against his heart, the breath burning in his throat. Even as the woman charged across the small radish patch that grew in the very shadow of the mill, the scientist felt a surge of victory. The door was close. He sneered at his pursuer and dived the last few feet that separated him from safety. The old man’s weight pushed the portal open. His lean hands closed around the frame of the door and he leaned into it as he drove the timber panel shut behind him.

  He was unable to close the door, however, the toe of a black boot was wedged between the frame and the jamb. Weichs put his full weight against the door, trying to force it closed, but found it being pushed back. Slowly, steadily, the door was opening. The plague doktor abandoned the uneven contest, leaping back and allowing the door to crash inward. He cringed at the awful apparition that stood in the doorway. Silja’s countenance was caked in black, dripping mud, her features hidden behind clumps of damp earth, but he could see her eyes, smouldering hateful embers shining from beneath the mask of mud.

  Weichs backed away, dragging a small dagger from his belt. It was Silja’s turn to sneer as she tightened her hold on the sword in her hand. Youth, strength, reach and skill, all of these were staunchly stacked in her favour. The plague doktor was outmatched, and she could see in his eyes that he knew it. She watched him look around for some avenue of escape, but there was nothing. Sacks of grain and processed flour, the immense mass of the mill wheel, a frightened donkey lashed to its turn post, and a large wooden sifter were the only things within the mill beyond Weichs and his adversary.