A WARHAMMER SS
A CHOICE OF
HATREDS
Mathias Thulmann - 00a
C.L. Werner
(An Undead Scan v1.5)
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
On the outskirts of the small town of Kleinsdorf, a group of raucous men gathered in a fallow field. Before them stood an inverted anvil upon which a burly man garbed in a heavy blacksmith’s apron set a second anvil. The man’s bearded face split into a booming laugh as one of his comrades lit a hemp fuse that slithered between the anvils to reach a small charge of gunpowder. A hushed silence fell upon the men as the smouldering flame slowly burned its way to the explosive. Suddenly a tremendous boom echoed across the barren fields and the uppermost anvil was thrown into the sky to crash into the ground several yards away. A great cheer erupted from the group and the blacksmith set off at a lumbering jog to retrieve the heavy iron projectile, even as one of his friends prepared another charge.
“It looks like we have chanced into a bit of a celebration, eh, Mathias?” commented a stout, bearded rider on the road overlooking the anvil-firing party.
The man wore a battered and ill-mended pair of leather breeches; an equally battered jerkin of studded leather struggled to contain the man’s slight paunch. Greasy, swine-like eyes peered from either side of a splayed nose while an unkempt beard clothed his forward-jutting jaw. From a scabbard at his side a broadsword swayed with each step of his horse.
“We come here seeking rest, friend Streng, not to indulge your penchant for debauchery,” replied the second rider. A tall, grim figure, the second man was his companion’s senior by at least a decade. Where Streng’s attire was shabby and worn, this man’s was opulent. Immaculate shiny leather boots rose to the man’s knees and his back was enveloped by a heavy black cape lined with the finest ermine. Fine calfskin gauntlets garbed slender-fingered hands while a tunic of red satin embroidered with gold clothed his arms and chest. The wide rounded brim of his leather hat cast a shadow upon the rider’s features. Hanging from a dragonskin belt with an enormous silver buckle were a pair of holstered pistols and a slender-bladed longsword.
“You are the one who has taken so many fine vows to Sigmar,” Streng said with a voice that was not quite a sneer. “I recall taking no such vows.”
Mathias turned to look at his companion and his face emerged from the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. The older man’s visage was gaunt, dominated by a narrow, dagger-like nose and the thin moustache that rested between it and the man’s slender lips. A grey arrow of beard stabbed out from the man’s chin. His eyes were of similar flinty hue but burnt with a strange intensity, a determination and zeal that were at odds with the glacial hue.
“You make no vows to Sigmar, yet you take the Temple’s gold easily enough,” Mathias locked eyes with his comrade. Some of the glib disrespect in Streng’s manner dissipated as he met that gaze.
“I’ve not seen many monks with so fine a habit as yours,” Streng said, turning his eyes from his companion.
“It is sometimes wise to remind people that Sigmar rewards service in this life as well as the hereafter.” Mathias looked away from his henchman and stared at the town before them.
A small settlement of some thousand persons, the simple wooden structures were close together, the streets narrow and crooked. Everywhere there was laughter and singing, music from mandolin and fife. A celebratory throng choked the streets, dancing with recklessness born more of joy than drink, at least in this early hour of the festival. Yet, none were so reckless as not to make way for Mathias as he manoeuvred his steed into the narrow streets, nor to make the sign of Sigmar’s Hammer with the witch hunter’s passing.
“I shall take room at the inn. You find a stable for the horses,” Mathias said as he and Streng rode through the crowd.
“And then?” asked Streng, a lustful gleam in his eyes and a lecherous grin splitting his face.
“I care not what manner of sin you find fit to soil your soul with,” snarled the witch hunter. “Just see that you are in condition to ride at cock’s crow.”
As they talked, the pair did not observe the stealthy figure who watched their exchange from behind a hay-laden wagon. They did not see the same figure emerge from its hiding place with their passing, nor the venomous glare it sent after them.
Gustav sipped at the small glass of Tilean wine, listening to the sounds of merriment beyond the walls of his inn. A greedy glint came to the innkeeper’s eyes as he thought of the vacant rooms above his head and the drunken men who would fill them before the night was through. The Festival of Wilhelmstag brought many travellers to Kleinsdorf, travellers who would find themselves too drunk or too fatigued to quit the town once the festivities reached their end. Few would be lucid enough to haggle over the “competitive” fee Gustav charged his annual Wilhelmstag guests.
Gustav again sipped at his wine, silently toasting Wilhelm Hoess and the minotaur lord which had been kind enough to let itself and its horde of Chaos spawn be slaughtered in the streets of Kleinsdorf two centuries past. Even now, the innkeeper could see the gilded skull of the monster atop a pole in the centre of the square outside, torchlight from the celebratory throng below it dancing across the golden surface. Gustav hoped that the minotaur was enjoying the view, for tomorrow the skull would return to a chest in the town hall, there to reside until next Wilhelmstag.
The opening of the inn’s front door roused the innkeeper from his thoughts. Gustav smiled.
The first sheep comes to be fleeced, he thought as he scuttled away from the window. But the smile died when Gustav’s eyes observed the countenance of his new guest. The high black hat, flowing cape and expensive weapons combined with the stern visage of the man’s face told Gustav what this man was even before he saw the burning gleam in those cold grey eyes.
“I am sorry, my lord, but I am afraid that I have no rooms that are free.” Gustav winced as the witch hunter’s eyes stared into his own. “The… the festival. It brings many guests. If you had only come on another night…” the innkeeper stammered.
“Your common room is also filled?” the witch hunter interrupted.
“Why no,” Gustav said, a nervous tic causing his left eye to twitch uncontrollably.
“Then you may move one of your guests to the common room,” the witch hunter declared. Gustav nodded his agreement even as he inwardly cursed the man. The common room was a long hall at the side of the inn lined wi
th pallets of straw. Even drunkards would be unwilling to pay much for such lodgings.
“You may show me my room,” the witch hunter said, his firm hand grasping Gustav’s shoulder and pushing the innkeeper ahead of himself. “I trust that you have something appropriate for a devoted servant of Sigmar?”
“Yes, my lord,” Gustav said, altering his course away from the closet-like chamber he had thought to give the witch hunter. He led the way up a flight of stairs to one of the larger rooms. The witch hunter peered into the chamber while the innkeeper held the door open.
“No, I think not,” the witch hunter declared. The bearded face moved closer toward Gustav’s own and one of the gloved fingers touched the twitching muscle beside the innkeeper’s eye.
“Interesting,” Mathias said, not quite under his breath. The innkeeper’s eyes grew wide with fright, seeming to see the word “mutation” forming in the witch hunter’s mind.
“A nervous twitch, nothing more,” Gustav muttered, knowing that even so slight a physical defect had put men to the stake in many backwater towns. “I have a much nicer room, if you would follow me.” Gustav turned, leading the witch hunter to a second flight of stairs.
“Yes, this will do,” Mathias stated when Gustav led him into a large and well-furnished room at the very top of the inn. Gustav smiled and nodded his head nervously.
“It is my honour to serve a noble Templar of Sigmar,” the innkeeper said as he walked to the large oak wardrobe that dominated one corner of the room. Gustav opened the wardrobe and removed his own nightshirt and cap from it.
“I will dine here,” Mathias declared, settling into a large chair and removing his weapon-laden belt. “A goose and some wine, I think.” The witch hunter stroked his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.
“I will see to it,” the innkeeper said, knowing better than to challenge his most-unwanted guest. Gustav paused a few steps away from the witch hunter. Mathias reached into a pocket in the lining of his tunic and tossed a few coins into the man’s hands. Gustav stared stupidly at them for several seconds.
“I did not come for the festival,” explained Mathias, “so I should not have to pay festival prices.” The witch hunter suddenly cocked his head and stared intently at Gustav’s twitching eye.
“I shall see about your supper,” Gustav whimpered as he hurried from the room.
The streets of Kleinsdorf were alive with rejoicing. Everywhere there was dancing and singing. But all the laughter and joy in the world could not touch the figure that writhed its way through the crowd. The dark, shabby cloak of the man, meant to keep him inconspicuous, was at odds with the bright fabrics and flowers of the revellers and made him stand out all the more. Dozens of times Reinhardt von Lichtberg had been forced to ward away garishly clad townspeople who thought to exorcise this wraith of melancholy in their midst with dance and drink. Reinhardt spat into the dust. A black-hearted murderer had descended upon this place and all these idiots could do was dance and laugh. Well, if things turned out as Reinhardt planned, he too would have cause to dance and laugh. Before they stretched his neck from a gallows.
Hands clasped Reinhardt’s shoulders and spun the young man around. So lost in thoughts of revenge was he that he did not even begin to react before warm, moist lips closed about his own. The woman detached herself and stared up into the young man’s face.
“I don’t believe that I know you,” Reinhardt said as his eyes considered the golden-haired, well-built woman smiling impishly at him and the taste of ale that covered his lips.
“You could,” the woman smiled. “The Festival of Wilhelmstag is a time for finding new people.”
Reinhardt shook his head. “I am looking for no one new.” Reinhardt found himself thinking again of Mina and how she had died. And how her murderer would die.
“You have not seen a witch hunter, by any chance?” Reinhardt asked. The woman’s smile turned into a full-lipped pout.
“I’ve met his surrogate,” the girl swore. “Over at the beer hall, drinking like an orc and carrying on like a Tilean sailor. Mind you, no decent woman had better get near him.” The impish smile returned and the woman pulled scandalously at the torn fringe of her bodice. “See what the brute did to me.”
Reinhardt grabbed the woman’s arms in a vice-like grip.
“Did he say where Mathias Thulmann, the witch hunter, is?” Reinhardt snarled. The coyness left the woman’s face as the drunken haze was replaced by something approaching fear.
“The inn, he was taking a room at the inn.” The girl retreated into the safety of the crowd as Reinhardt released her. The nobleman did not even notice her go, his mind already processing the information she had given him. His right hand slid beneath the shabby cloak and closed around the hilt of his sword.
“Soon, Mina,” Reinhardt whispered, “soon your murderer will discover what suffering is.”
Gerhardt Knauf had never known terror such as he now felt. The wonderful thrill of fear that he enjoyed when engaging in his secret activities was gone. The presence of the witch hunter had driven home the seriousness of discovery in a way that Knauf had never fully comprehended before. The shock and looks of disbelief he had visualised on his neighbours’ faces when they realised that the merchant was more than he seemed had become the frenzied visages of a bloodthirsty mob. In his imagination, Knauf could even smell the kindling as it caught flame.
The calf-eyed merchant with his beetle-like brow downed the contents of the tankard resting on the bar before him in a single bolt. Knauf pressed a hand against his mouth, struggling to keep the beer from leaving his body as quickly as it had entered it. The merchant managed to force the bile back into his stomach and let his head sway towards the man sitting beside him.
“Mueller,” croaked Knauf, his thin voice struggling to maintain a semblance of dignity, even as he struggled against fear and inebriation. The heavy set mercenary at his side looked away from the gob of wax he had been whittling into a lewd shape and regarded the merchant.
“You have done jobs for me before,” Knauf continued.
“Aye,” the mercenary cautiously replied, fingering his knife.
“And I have always paid you fairly and promptly,” the merchant added, his head swaying from side to side like some bloated reptile.
“That is true enough,” Mueller said, a smirk on his face. The truth of it was that Knauf was too timid to be miserly when it came to paying the men who protected his wagons. A cross look from Rail, or Gunther, or even from the scarecrow-like Hossbach, and the mercenaries would see an increase in their wages.
“Would you say that we are friends?” Knauf said, reaching for another ceramic tankard of beer. He swallowed only half the tankard’s contents this time, spilling most of the remainder when he clumsily set the vessel back upon the table.
“Were you to pay me enough, I would even say that we were brothers,” Mueller replied, struggling to contain the laughter building within his gut. But the condescending sarcasm in the mercenary’s voice was lost on the half-drunken Knauf. The merchant caught hold of Mueller’s arm and stared into his face with pleading eyes.
“Would you murder for me?” the merchant hissed. This time Mueller did laugh.
“By Ulric’s fangs, Gerhardt!” the mercenary swore. “Who could you possibly hate enough to need killed?” Mueller laughed again and downed his own tankard of beer.
“The witch hunter,” whispered Knauf, his head swaying from side to side to ensure that no one had overheard.
“Have you been reading things you shouldn’t?” Mueller asked, only half-seriously. The look of fear in Knauf’s eyes killed the joke forming on the mercenary’s lips. Mueller rose from his chair and stared down at the merchant.
“Forty gold crowns,” the mercenary declared, waving away the look of joy and hope crawling across Knauf’s features. “And as far as the boys are concerned, you are paying us ten.” Mueller turned away from the table and started to walk into the main room of the beer hall.
“Where are you going?” Knauf called after Mueller in a voice that sounded unusually shrill even for the merchant.
“To get Hossbach and the others,” Mueller said. “Maybe I’ll see if I can’t learn something about our friend as well.” The mercenary turned away. He only got a few steps before Knauf’s drunken hands were scrabbling at the man’s coat.
“How are you going to do that?” Knauf hissed up at him with alarm.
Mueller extracted himself from the merchant’s grip. He pointed a finger to the far end of the beer hall where a bawdy song and shrieks of mock indignation marked the crowd gathered in morbid fascination around the man who had rode into Kleinsdorf with the witch hunter.
“How else? I’ll speak with his lackey.” Mueller shook his head as Knauf started to protest. “Leave this to me. Why don’t you go home and get my gold ready?” The mercenary did not wait to see if Knauf would follow his suggestion, but continued across the beer hall, liberating a metal stein from a buxom barmaid along the way.
“Sometimes they confess straight away,” Streng was saying as Mueller inconspicuously joined his audience. “That’s the worst of it. There’s nothing left to do but string them up, or burn them if they’ve been particularly bad.” Streng paused to smile at the woman sitting on his knee.
“So how do you go about finding a witch?” Mueller interrupted Streng’s carousing. The lout turned to Mueller and regarded him with an irritated sneer.
“I don’t. That’s the Templar’s job. Mathias finds them and then I make them confess. That way everything is above board and the Temple can burn the filthy things without anybody being upset.” Streng turned away from Mueller and returned his attention to his companion.
“So your master has come to Kleinsdorf looking for witches?” Mueller interrupted again.
Streng shook his head and glared at this man who insisted on intruding on his good time.
[Mathias Thulmann 00a] - A Choice of Hatreds Page 1
