[Mathias Thulmann 02] - Witch Finder Read online

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  WITCH FINDER

  Mathias Thulmann - 02

  C.L. Werner

  (An Undead Scan v1.1)

  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 descendent 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 World’s 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.

  PROLOGUE

  Grey clouds hovered above the tiled rooftops of the city, stretching across the horizon like a gigantic shroud. A chill wind stirred the air, an unseasonably early harbinger of the coming winter. From the brick chimneys of every house and hovel, thin serpents of smoke slithered upwards, adding to the already dingy atmosphere, blotting out the sun’s feeble efforts to smile down upon the streets of Wurtbad.

  The narrow lanes that wound their way between the sprawl of the city were subdued, despite the masses of grim-faced men and .women. With winter threatening an early advent, the people of Wurtbad were eager to gather provisions for the harsh months ahead. Bakeries and wine shops bustled with commerce, and rang out with the clink of coins changing hands. But there was little conversation. Each tradesman’s eye was narrowed with suspicion and fear. Cloves of garlic, pots filled with fragrant flowers and parchment seals marked with prayers to Shallya, goddess of healing and mercy, marked most doorways. The threat of winter was still some distance away. But the threat of plague was already upon Wurtbad.

  The disease had appeared in the harbour districts first, the miserable little ghettos to which dockhands and labourers slunk back once their day’s toil was at an end. Foul black boils festered upon the victim’s skin until, at last, they burst open, weeping brown pus. The sick and dying would linger for weeks, their bodies becoming ever more grotesquely infected until there was no nourishment left in their wasted frames to sustain the disease. Then they expired. It was an ugly, loathsome death, of a kind that the city’s doktors and scholars, even the temples of Shallya and Morr, had never witnessed before. But it was not all the victims had to bear. To the terrifying stigma of the disease was added the horror of the unknown.

  Sinister shapes stalked the streets now. Strange figures born from the city’s despair. One such apparition prowled that part of the city that had been given over to brothels and taverns. The stranger wore a heavy brown topcoat about his tall, elongated frame. On his head sat a wide-brimmed hat, it was battered and twisted, stained by the tainted rain from the smoke-befouled clouds. His gloved hands held a long, steel-handled walking cane and a dingy leather satchel. But his most distinctive feature was the mask that shielded his face from the elements — a mask of oiled leather with a long, bird-like beak, stretching out from beneath the shadow of his hat. Its smoky lenses were glazed, like the eyes of a vulture, hiding the human orbs that peered from behind them. The faint smell of lilac suggested itself as the stranger passed, seeming to exude from the bird-like bill.

  The stranger was a plague doktor, one of the only men in Wurtbad with the courage to venture into the homes of those brought low by the blight. One of the only men greedy enough to make their suffering his business.

  He reached the end of an alleyway, his steps frightening a starving cur from where it hid beneath a staircase. His mask turned upward, his eyes studying the red slash painted upon the doorway above the steps — the sign that the Blight had struck. Without hesitation, the plague doktor ascended the stairs, rapping upon the portal with the steel crown of his cane.

  Shuffling steps told of movement, and the portal shuddered inward as its warped frame was pulled inside. The grimy face at the door considered the strange apparition with an expression between hope and terror. The plague doktor did not wait to be admitted, forcing the occupant to retreat before him. The interior was dingy and decrepit, dirt and debris piled against its cracked plaster walls. A small corridor branched off from the foyer while a rickety wooden staircase wound its way upward.

  “Who is sick here?” All humanity in the doktor’s voice was smothered by layers of leather and sheepskin.

  “Four floors up,” the concierge was quick to reply, stabbing a finger at the ceiling. The doktor’s mask rose to follow the gesture, then fixed its lifeless lenses on the grimy little man. The concierge loudly swallowed the knot in his throat.

  “This is the third visit I have paid to your household,” the doktor stated. “Infection has perhaps taken hold.”

  “She’s no kin of mine!” the concierge protested hastily. “A common whore, like the others!” His cry was desperate, as though denying any relationship with the infected woman might spare him from the disease itself.

  “You will show me to her room.” The concierge’s face grew more pallid beneath its layers of grime as he hurried after the visitor. “I should like to examine everyone who resides here,” the plague doktor said. “If the blight has appeared here three times, others are likely infected.”

  “Is that really necessary?” the concierge gasped.

  “It is not you who pays the cost,” the doktor consoled the little man, seemingly oblivious to the reason for his concern. “And it would be better than contracting the blight yourself.” The concierge nearly tripped on the stairs as he forgot which foot he was using.

  “That — that isn’t — I couldn’t…” the concierge stuttered. The doktor paused on the stairway. He looked down from the upper step as though he was one of the gargoyles crouched upon the cathedral of Sigmar.

  “Do not discount the possibility,” the doktor asserted. “After you have shown me to the woman’s room, I suggest you retire to your own. I shall examine you when I am done,” His leather glove creaked as he made firm his grip upon his cane. “All it will cost is a little time, and a little silver.”

  The concierge swallowed again, and hurried to conduct the visitor to his appointment.

  “Remove your clothing,” the muffled voice intoned from behind the mask. Vira Staubkammer raised a slender hand to her breast, her fingers lighting upon the strings that dripped from her bodice.

  The plague doktor did not seem to notice, his gaze swept the room, studying its dingy squalor. Shabby excuses for a wardrobe and dressing table were visibly crumbling. There was a reek of dirty straw from the small bed-frame, its mattress supported by sagging ropes.

  The woman might once have been considered possessed of beauty, but long years of squalor and shame had cheapened its bloom. Her mouth was too accustomed to false laughter and hollow pleasure, her eyes were pits of emptiness that had seen far too much ugliness in her short life. What remained in her shapely figure, in her long dark hair, was only the illusion of what stirred longing in the blood of men. But it was enough
to suit her needs; enough to serve men who would pay for the tattered reflection of that which they desired.

  “I am not accustomed to this,” said Vira, her voice struggling to assume its normal bold haughtiness. “I am paid to remove my clothes. I have never paid for the privilege of removing them myself.”

  “You should change your bedding,” the plague doktor said, completing his inspection of her room. He strode past the young whore as she opened her bodice, exposing the pale flesh beneath. Oblivious to her partial nudity, he set his bag down upon the table. “All sorts of ill humors can gather in such squalor.” He removed a set of gruesome picks and bone-scrapers. Vira blanched as she saw the ugly instruments, her face turning almost as white as her bodice. The mask turned to regard her once more. Vira quivered before its vulture-like eyes. She would have been more at ease to see lust, despair, even hate, in the man’s face, but the mask betrayed not the slightest hint of emotion.

  “Extend your arms,” the plague doktor ordered. “Hold them to either side.”

  “It is only a cough,” Vira protested even as she obeyed. “I was out late… a friend who was too eager to wait to reach indoors. It will pass.”

  “Perhaps,” the muffled voice mused. Vira shuddered as the man strode from the table, a long, needle-like lance in his gloved clutch. The plague doktor circled her slowly, as though he really were a vulture circling some carrion before feeding upon it. The lilac scent exuding from the mask’s leather beak filled her lungs. Vira cringed as the cold tip of the lance touched her skin, prodding her to raise her armpit. From the corner of her eye, she could see the mask nod up and down. What had he seen, she wondered?

  “I fear that Herr Kemper is something akin to a biddy,” Vira said, silently cursing the prying concierge who saw fit to send for this man. It was only a minor cold, she was certain of that. That it could be anything more was too horrible to contemplate.

  The plague doktor strode back toward the table. Vira watched with relief as he began to drop the sinister instruments back into his bag. The vulture-like mask turned toward her once more. “Lower your arms and restore your clothes.” Vira breathed an audible sigh of relief, hurrying to comply.

  “I am well then?” she dared to ask, unable to hold back the relief. The doktor removed a small bottle from his bag.

  “Perhaps,” he repeated. “There is no outward sign of the blight about you, but this cough disturbs me. It may signify an imbalance among your humors.” He held the tiny bottle in his gloved hand.

  Vira felt a wave of unease as the plague doktor approached, beyond even her earlier trepidation. Her eyes fixed on the clouded glass clutched in his hand. “What is that?” she asked.

  “Medicinal vapours,” came the answer. “They will restore the harmony of your body’s humors. You should have a rag at hand, I fear. And I do hope you did not spend too much for your breakfast.”

  The young woman suppressed a cough and smiled nervously. “What must I do?”

  Although she could not see his face, she seemed to sense the plague doktor smiling as he pulled the clay stopper from the bottle.

  “Just breathe deeply,” he told her. “The vapours will do the rest.”

  The plague doktor slipped into the shadows of an alley beside the brooding brickwork of the Black Sleep tavern. In the darkness he removed his outer garments, carefully folding his topcoat and hat before slipping them into his bag. He undid the small bronze clasp that held his mask against his face, inhaling deeply as he freed himself of the lilac odour. The pomander within the bill of his mask would need replacement when next he went abroad, but it was a small expense when weighed against the great work in which he was engaged.

  It was a lean, elderly man who emerged from the alleyway, tapping on the cobblestones with his steel-tipped cane, frosty white hair standing out in the flickering lamplight. The old man smiled politely as a pair of burly ruffians emerged from the Black Sleep, stepping aside with an elaborate gesture as they swaggered into the night. His mouth pulled into a quiet sneer as he watched them fade. He would not have to linger amongst such squalor for long. Very soon his work would be completed and his name ranked amongst the immortals, as the greatest mind of his time.

  The old man paid little heed to the Black Sleep, his eyes not dwelling on the boisterous crowd inside the tavern. He strode away from the bierkeller, toward a small stairway set against the wall nearest the bar. Lingering for a moment, ensuring that he was not observed, he slipped down the stairs.

  He soon found himself within the Black Sleep’s cellar, surrounded by casks of ale, beer and wine. The old man cast one more cautious glance over his shoulder. Satisfied that he was still alone, he walked to one of the casks, sliding his body into the narrow space between the huge barrel and the cellar wall, then worked his way along until he reached a narrow gap. A length of black cloth hung against the wall. He lifted it and entered the crude, burrow-like tunnel it concealed. Hesitating for one moment, he lit a tiny lantern he found resting within a niche in the earthen wall of the tunnel.

  He had not proceeded far before he was greeted by a diminutive figure bearing a lantern similar to his own. The old man peered down at the small shape, noting with amusement its awkward, spider-like gait. The lamplight performed further malevolent tricks on the little creature’s disordered features.

  “Your work went well, herr doktor?” the gargoyle’s shrill voice enquired.

  “As well as might be expected,” the old man replied. “I treated a half-dozen this day. I shall send our friends to collect two of them. They will make rather interesting subjects for my studies.”

  The old man handed his bag to his minion, the tiny creature nodding his malformed head. It was a gruesome combination, he thought, a head large enough for a full-grown man rising from the shoulders of a halfling. But one could never be certain of what exact form his studies would take — nor, indeed, of what shape the objects of his studies might choose to manifest themselves in. At least he had been able to prove that halflings were not completely immune to what ignorant men called “Chaos”. And poor little Lobo has proving a most enthusiastic servant, since he believed only the great Herr Doktor Freiherr Weichs could ever cure his affliction.

  A sound in the darkness caused Doktor Weichs to turn about, his feverish eyes peering into the shadows. As the scuttling noise repeated itself, the doktor slowly lowered his lantern. His new friends were not over-fond of the light, nor was it was wise to upset them. A trickle of fear ran down Weichs’ spine. The kind of stark, mortal terror that even the Templars of Sigmar had failed to wring from his corrupt soul. The stink of mangy fur, the reek of sewer filth, exuded from the dark. Once again, Weichs heard the scrabbling of claws on the earthen floor of the tunnel, the soft chittering of inhuman whispers. They weren’t supposed to be here. Skilk was supposed to keep them away!

  Weichs cringed as he sensed something drawing near. Red eyes gleamed from the shadows, reflecting the dim light from his lantern. Beside him, Lobo emitted a moan of fright. The scientist fought to compose himself. He knew these creatures had senses far beyond those of a man, that they could smell fear dripping from a human body. They were drawn to any sign of weakness, any taint of frailty. The doktor remembered the bag he had given to Lobo. That was what had drawn them. It was the odour within. He should have known. Should have expected! Should have prepared for them.

  The red eyes were not looking at him now; they had shifted and turned toward Lobo and the bag. Weichs gained an impression of whiskers twitching in the dark, of a rodent’s muzzle sniffing at the air. Of furred lips pulling back, exposing inch-long incisors. Beyond the first set of eyes, he now saw others gleaming within the tunnel.

  “You are most punctual,” Weichs stated, his voice echoing loud. The red eyes instantly turned back upon him. “I had not expected you so soon.” He fought to keep his timbre calm, struggled to impose a note of command. “Grey Seer Skilk is fortunate to be served by such capable and noble followers.” Weichs noted the eyes fli
nch as he spoke the name of Skilk, his sense of smell registering the unpleasant musky odour that exuded from the shadows. If they didn’t understand anything else he said, at least the vermin had recognised the name of their inhuman priest.

  “I need you to collect two more subjects…” Weichs held up his hand, displaying two fingers. He knew from previous experience that the creatures could see far better in the dark than even a dwarf. They would not fail to notice the gesture, any more than they would miss the lilac scent that led them to their victims. Again, the chittering gnawed at the shadows, making the doktor’s flesh crawl as their ghastly voices clawed at his ears.

  “Yes-yes,” a sharp voice hissed from the darkness. “Man-meat find-take. Grey seer like-like!” Slowly the gleaming eyes withdrew back into the darkness. Weichs heard the sound of verminous paws pattering their way down the tunnel. The scientist lifted the lantern again, throwing its door wide open, revelling in the warm comfort of its illumination.

  “Back to the laboratory, Lobo,” he ordered. The halfling nodded his oversized head, limping back down the tunnel, struggling with the doktor’s heavy bag. Weichs watched him for a moment, then cast a nervous glance after the retreating red eyes, suppressing another shudder. His dealings with the skaven always filled him with dread. He could see their envy and hatred of the entire human race burning in their eyes.

  Weichs fought back his loathing. It was immaterial what he felt, or what the skaven felt. All that mattered was his work. He needed a safe place to conduct his studies. Skilk had provided that. He needed subjects for his experiments. Skilk was able to provide that, also. But most of all, he needed warpstone, and that too was in Skilk’s power to provide.

  Yes indeed, the world would soon come to know the name of Doktor Freiherr Weichs.

  One way or another…