Witch Killer Page 12

  ‘What happened?’ Silja asked. She had decided to help Thulmann go over the town records. Examining old documents was something she’d had a great deal of practice at in her function as Igor Markoff’s chief investigator and agent. Thulmann had readily agreed; two pairs of eyes would do the work faster than one and the quicker they made their study, the sooner they might ferret out the location of Kleib’s skaven lair.

  ‘The dwarfs decided they could get a better price in Bretonnia?’ Lajos suggested, drawing a scowl from Reinheckel and a stern look from Thulmann. Like Silja, the strigany had decided to accompany the witch hunter, mostly because he found the prospect of spending time with any of his other travelling companions rather unhealthy.

  Reinheckel paced across the record room. It was a long, narrow chamber, its walls filled with shelves, its floor littered with piles of books and rolls of parchment. A few long tables stretched across the centre of the room, their surfaces strewn with a scattering of dusty volumes. An old, thin man in black robes turned away from one of the tables as they entered, bowing deferentially to Reinheckel. The old man went to one of the tables, retrieving a large, leather-bound book.

  ‘May I present Curate Andein,’ Reinheckel said. ‘In addition to his duties at our small chapel to Lord Sigmar, he also helps to maintain the histories of Wyrmvater.’

  Thulmann fixed Andein with a fierce look. ‘I trust he keeps his books better than he keeps his chapel.’

  The first place Thulmann had paid a visit to had been Wyrmvater’s chapel. He had been incensed to find the icons within the sanctuary dusty and cobwebs clinging to the wooden beams above the nave.

  The old man cowered before Thulmann’s smouldering anger. ‘Forgive me, templar, I am but acting curate here. Our priest was taken from us by a sickness six months ago and the holy temple has not seen fit to send someone to replace him yet. I helped Father Schmidt in his services so it was decided that I should minister until his replacement arrives.’

  Lajos raised his eyebrow as he heard the old man address Thulmann, but kept silent. The last thing he needed was to get involved. Besides, the old man’s story had caused some of the templar’s anger to pass.

  ‘That is worthy of you, but the temple should be maintained to a nobler standard,’ Thulmann said. ‘It is the house of Sigmar. It should be kept as such.’

  Reinheckel coughed loudly, trying to draw attention back to himself and defuse the tense situation. He took the volume Andein had selected, opening it and displaying it for Thulmann’s inspection. ‘This book was commissioned near-on six hundred years ago by one of my predecessors,’ Reinheckel said. ‘It is a detailed history of our town, at least until that point.’ He extended his hand, indicating the other books strewn across the tables. ‘All of these are histories of the town. Some are official records, others are diaries and journals. Wyrmvater was quite well versed in the craft of letters at one time,’ he added with a note of pride. ‘The rest are accounting ledgers, figures on harvest yields, expenditures from the town treasury. I rather thought such mercantile concerns would be of little interest to a witch hunter.’

  The burgomeister began to flip through the book he had retrieved, smiling as he reached the page he sought. He set the book down on the table, standing back for the witch hunter and his companion to examine the open page. Snarling back at them was an old woodcut of a fanged reptilian face, horns ringing its brow.

  ‘The dragon Skorn,’ Reinheckel pronounced. ‘It never was agreed upon why the old wyrm emerged from his mountain. Some said it was the dwarfs, who dug their mines too near the dragon’s lair and that the smell of raw gold caused him to stir. Others claimed it was the will of the gods, that the dragon was set loose to punish the land for its greed and avarice. There were even rumours it was the work of the Great Enchanter, that it was his fell magics that broke its slumber. Whatever the reason, he came with wrath and ruin, laying waste to the countryside. The dwarfs retreated into their strongholds, trying to wait out the wyrm, leaving men to fend for themselves. Skorn wiped many towns and villages from the map, for none it seemed could stand against the dragon. Then, one day, there came a warrior, a knight from Altdorf. People tried not to laugh when he said he would kill the dragon, for how could he prevail where so many others had found death? Yet the knight’s intention was sincere and he left Wyrmvater to find his way into Skorn’s mountain and bring doom to the monster.’

  ‘None can say what powers guarded the knight,’ Reinheckel continued, turning the page, exposing another woodcut. This one showed a riot of images, from a jagged, craggy mountain peak to a lone warrior striking at a writhing dragon with his sword. The largest and centremost figure was the same knight standing beside a well, washing blood from his armour. ‘But surely more than skill and luck were needed to accomplish what he did that day. Into Skorn’s lair he went, one man against a beast that had killed thousands. That it was the man who would walk away from that mighty battle was a miracle none would have dared hope. The knight staggered back into our town, weary from his great ordeal, weak from his wounds. His armour steamed with Skorn’s searing blood and the townsfolk rushed to wash it from him. But as they drew bucket after bucket from the well, casting the water across the knight’s battered body, the dragon’s blood was splashed across the town square, draining back down into the well. It was found later that the dragon’s blood had polluted the water, rendering it unfit to drink. It was sealed and a statue of Skorn and the knight was placed above it.’

  Thulmann had wondered at the strange brickwork base that supported the statue Reinheckel described. It had struck him as peculiar that a piece of sculpture that was fine enough to be a Caliosto or even a von Geier should endure such a crude and unsightly pedestal. Now he had his answer.

  ‘The knight took the name of von Drakenburg for his great feat and was awarded lands to the north by the Count of Reikland for his heroism. Zwergdorf honoured that day too, rechristening itself Wyrmvater after the knight’s valour and courage.’ Reinheckel sighed, closing the book. ‘Sadly, even with the dragon gone, the land still suffered. It took many years for men to resettle the places Skorn had destroyed. The dwarfs stayed in their mountains, their shame at hiding in their holes while men fought their terrible foe outweighing even their lust for trade and profit. Without the dwarfs, the old trade road fell into disuse and Wyrmvater was slowly forgotten.’

  ‘The dragon’s mountain,’ Thulmann said, tapping the drawing. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Of course,’ the burgomeister replied. ‘It is a place shunned and avoided by my people even unto this day. A day’s travel to the north. Really more a pile of rock than a proper mountain.’

  ‘You think what we are after might be in the dragon’s mountain?’ Silja asked.

  ‘It is possible,’ Thulmann replied. ‘A dragon’s hole would be quite large, just the sort of place,’ he looked at Reinheckel and paused. ‘Just the sort of place that might serve a rabble of heretic scum as a refuge; save them the bother of digging their own.’ Thulmann glanced at the other books scattered across the table. ‘Still, we are ill served pouncing upon the first thing we see. We still need to peruse the histories Herr Reinheckel was so kind to prepare for us. There may be something even more promising in their pages.’ Thulmann settled into a chair and pulled one of the books towards him, fishing in his pocket for a pair of pince nez glasses before beginning what promised to be a long day. Silja sat across the table from the witch hunter and began consulting the book Reinheckel had shown to them.

  ‘I shall leave you to your studies,’ Reinheckel said as he withdrew from the room. ‘Good hunting.’

  ‘Innkeeper! Another stein all around!’ Streng’s voice roared across the Splintered Shield’s taproom. He made a show of draining the last dregs from the lead stein clutched in his fist and set the vessel down on the table with a sharp bang.

  ‘Keep that up and I’ll be winning our wager,’ the ferret-faced Driest said from across the table, taking a measured swallow from
his own stein. ‘Their ale is strong for a backwoods piss-pit like this.’

  ‘I’ve had stronger,’ Streng grunted. ‘Got a good kick to it, I’ll allow that. They probably got a taste for this stuff from the dwarfs. Not that it matters, I’ll still drink you under the table.’ The mercenary laughed appreciatively as Schieller’s young daughter came walking to their table, a wooden platter supporting three steins held in her hands. Streng snatched all three vessels from her, sliding two across the table to his companions and taking a long pull from the other. The girl retreated back across the taproom.

  ‘Keep them coming, innkeeper!’ Streng bellowed, ‘and hire some older barmaids!’ The mercenary laughed again. At the far end of the table, Gernheim shook his scarred head. Streng fixed the Carroburger with a sullen stare. ‘Something bothering you?’

  Gernheim scowled back at Streng, clenching his fist. The Carroburger had been captured by goblins during the rampage of Azhag the Slaughterer’s horde in the northern reaches of the Empire. In addition to his facial mutilations, the goblins had cut out the man’s tongue, a disability that Streng seemed to find amusing.

  ‘He doesn’t think you’ll win our little wager either,’ Driest answered.

  ‘Then the gobbos butchered his wits as well as his face,’ Streng said, taking another pull from his tankard. The rich dark ale slopped down his face, dripping from his beard. Driest smiled and carefully took another measured sip from his own. The only one with befuddled senses at their table was Thulmann’s man. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was already three steins ahead of Driest and working on a fourth.

  ‘So… so… so.’ Streng blinked his eyes as if trying to capture an errant thought. ‘What’s the deal with yer gaffer, ole Krieger there? Seems a hard bastard.’

  ‘He pays well enough,’ Driest answered, ‘and the work isn’t exactly unenjoyable.’ A sadistic smirk worked its way onto Driest’s face. ‘But I don’t have to tell you about that.’

  ‘Krieger’s thick with Zerndoff, ain’t ’e?’ Streng grumbled. ‘Can’t see where that’d leave much time for field work.’

  Driest took another measured swallow from his drink, scratching at his narrow nose. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised the sorts of things we get up to sometimes.’

  ‘Would I now?’

  Gernheim reached a huge paw to his comrade’s shoulder, but Driest shook him off. The sharpshooter leaned forwards across the table, his face only inches from Streng’s, his ale-laced breath washing over the mercenary’s features, oblivious to the clarity and attentiveness in Streng’s eyes.

  ‘You do fine work.’ Krieger’s gloved hand stroked the black wolfskin hanging on the wooden wall. It was a large specimen of its breed, expertly skinned and cured. He could understand why the tanner would have chosen to keep such an example of his trade for himself.

  The tanner remained seated in his chair, his wife standing behind him, her arms resting protectively on his shoulders. ‘Th-thank you, your lordship.’

  Krieger stepped away from the wall and paced slowly around the small common room of the tanner’s home. ‘Tell me, Herr Kipps, perhaps you have even more impressive examples of your trade to show me?’

  ‘You mean like bears?’ the tanner asked.

  The gaunt face of Haussner turned from his inspection of an oak cabinet to glare at Kipps. ‘No, not like bears, you fool. It is unwise to be insolent to the servants of Lord Sigmar’s sacred will.’ The witch hunter stalked towards Kipps, stabbing a finger at him as if it was a dagger. ‘We are interested in anything out of the ordinary that might have been brought to you by one of the hunters or foresters of this village; something foul and obscene, the shape of a beast granted the unholy semblance of a man.’

  ‘We don’t have anything like that in these parts,’ Kipps declared, a tremor in his voice.

  ‘Are you certain?’ Krieger demanded. ‘Sometimes unwise, unlearned men encounter such abominations and prevail against them, but not understanding the true nature of what they have slain they think it to be like any other beast. Sometimes such men may try to keep a trophy of their victory.’

  Haussner stalked back across the room, this time descending on a large trunk resting against the wall. Kipps watched nervously as the witch hunter flipped the trunk open and began pawing through its contents.

  ‘I tell you I’ve seen no such thing as you describe,’ Kipps insisted, ‘and if it please the gods, I never shall. No one in these parts has seen such things.’

  ‘Indeed?’ sneered Krieger, drawing closer to the tanner and his wife. ‘Across the length and breadth of our glorious Empire the deep woods are infested with such monstrosities, their envy of man drawing them time and again to plague the remote outposts of civilisation. I have seen such creatures many times, from the woods of Middenland to the forests of Sylvania. Yet you tell me there are none here? That no one in all Wyrmvater has told stories of mutant beasts in the dark woods?’

  At the word ‘mutant’, Kipps’s wife gave a weak moan of fright, clutching her husband’s shoulders still more tightly. The tanner tried to keep his expression neutral, but Krieger did not fail to notice the flicker of apprehension he had seen there. The tanner did know something, something he preferred not to tell a witch hunter. Peasants, Krieger thought, their superstitious dread of the creatures of Old Night befuddling what passed for reason in their simple minds. Even in the presence of men experienced and skilled in combating such monsters, the peasant would let his fear of them keep his tongue still. It had been Krieger’s experience that the quickest way to get a peasant talking was to show him that there were things much more fearsome than the ghoulish denizens of darkness.

  ‘I am a reasonable man, Herr Kipps,’ Krieger said, ‘but I fear that you begin to try my patie…’

  Krieger was interrupted by the harsh, snarled oath of Haussner. Even Ehrhardt, his armoured bulk looming against the door of the tanner’s home, was startled by Haussner’s invective. The gaunt witch hunter rose from the trunk he’d been pawing through, a jumble of blue fabric clenched in his claw-like hand.

  ‘Lying gutter swine!’ Haussner snarled. ‘You dare spit your blasphemies into the ears of Sigmar! But no deceit can prevail against Him! Behold the evidence of your perfidy!’ Haussner waved the bundle of fabric beneath the noses of Kipps and his wife. Ehrhardt could see that it was a pair of dresses, the dresses of a young girl. Haussner crushed them between his fingers as if strangling a viper.

  ‘You informed us you were alone here, Herr Kipps,’ Krieger said, his voice cold and unforgiving. ‘Just yourself and your wife. I don’t think these are quite her size. Tell me, who else lives here?’

  The tanner and his wife were pale with horror, unable to take their eyes from the tiny garments Haussner held. When Kipps could speak, it was in a dry croak. ‘I don’t know what those are,’ he said. ‘I told the truth, my lord, there is no one else here.’

  ‘More lies!’ Haussner roared. The back of his thin hand cracked against Kipps’s face with such force that the man was spilled to the floor. The man’s wife wailed in panic, launching herself at Haussner. The witch hunter planted his fist in her midsection, doubling her over in a coughing, wheezing wreck. He took a step towards Kipps as the man started to rise, but found himself suddenly lifted from the floor when a cold steel hand closed around his arm.

  ‘That’s enough, Haussner,’ Ehrhardt growled at the man. Haussner tried to twist out of the knight’s grasp even as his hands tried to tear the axe from his belt.

  ‘Get your hands off me, you heathen trash!’ Haussner snarled. ‘These swine have dared speak false to an appointed instrument of Lord Sigmar and I will have the truth from their lying lips! Release me, you scum!’

  With a twist of his powerful frame, the Black Guardsman slammed Haussner face-first into the floor. The sharp slap of Haussner’s head bouncing against the floorboards echoed through the room. Krieger watched the awesome display of strength in shocked silence, Kipps and his wife similarly awed. Ehrhardt rose
from the stunned, insensible fanatic, walking slowly towards the door.

  ‘Slip your dog back on his leash, Krieger,’ Ehrhardt’s deep voice rumbled. ‘For today at least, your “investigation” is over.’

  That night, around the largest table the dining room of the Splintered Shield could offer, Thulmann conferred with his associates. It was a heated exchange that soon had the innkeeper and his family keeping as far from the diners as they could. Haussner angrily related the incident at the tanner’s, demanding that Ehrhardt be restrained and confined until charges could be brought against him. The skeletal witch hunter was convinced that the knight was nothing less than an agent of the ruinous powers, inflicted upon them to undermine their holy work. Silja was the first to rise to the Black Guardsman’s defence, causing Haussner to shift the focus of his verbal attack on her. Under his venomous tongue, an infuriated Silja left the table, storming upstairs to her own rooms.

  With the patience of an Arabyan sphinx, Ehrhardt bore Haussner’s lashing tongue and then slowly explained why he had acted in such extreme terms. He reminded Thulmann that he wanted to retain as much as possible the goodwill of both the people of Wyrmvater and his fellow witch hunters. As a result of this injunction, Ehrhardt had perhaps allowed Krieger and Haussner to press too far with their overbearing questioning of the town’s citizens, but when intimidation had crossed into brutality, he had drawn the line. A few choice observations on Haussner’s unbalanced state of mind brought a fresh stream of fury spitting past the gaunt witch hunter’s lips, a tirade that ended only when the fuming Haussner quit the table, marching off to the stables to enjoy the ‘pious company of true believers’ and be rid of the odious presence of heathen heretics.

  Throughout the scene, Krieger had remained largely silent, not speaking a word to either defend or support Haussner. Thulmann demanded an accounting of Krieger’s overbearing tactics. Krieger’s reply that fear was the fastest way to get the townsfolk to talk, that they had no time to waste soft-stepping around dull-witted peasants, rang false in Thulmann’s ears. Krieger was deliberately trying to undermine Thulmann’s efforts to generate goodwill in the town. What puzzled him was why his fellow witch hunter should be set upon such a course.