[Mathias Thulmann 02] - Witch Finder Read online

  “We have more than we can use already,” the vampire declared. “It would be well if you got started. There is work to do here.”

  Carandini glared at the vampire, then turned and dragged the boathook he had brought with him in anticipation of the night’s labours. He might have expected the filthy coffin worm to leave all the dirty work to him. The necromancer moved toward the edge of the pit, sinking the boathook into one of the nearest bodies.

  Winter had already laid claim to the dungeons beneath the Wurtbad chapter house. Thulmann’s breath turned to cloud as he stalked along the dark corridor. The water seepage that oozed from the brickwork had turned to frost, clinging to the walls like icy cobwebs. The chill of the dungeons matched the witch hunter’s mood as his mind recollected the events of the past hours. Returning to the chapter house, he’d found that if the hunt for the plague doktors had gone well, then the search for Sibbechai’s lair had not. Reports had come back from the templars with no favourable results. Thulmann was not surprised — in a city as large and old as Wurtbad, the cemeteries were both numerous and vast, offering an enormous amount of hiding places. He was certain that, given enough time, they would turn up whatever crypt Sibbechai had laid claim to. But the witch hunter did not know how much time they really had.

  Neither had there been any word from Silja. Not that Thulmann expected anything favourable from that quarter. The Lord High Justice had impressed him as a man of resolve and determination; if he was set upon draconian measures, then not even the disapproval of his daughter would make him rethink his decision. Besides, Thulmann did not believe their origin lay with Igor Markoff. It had been decided upon by a still higher authority.

  Thulmann dismissed his concerns about Silja and Sibbechai. Those had to be dealt with later. Now there was the plague doktor to consider. He was of the same ilk as the one Streng had fought against. The same ghastly leather mask, a lilac pomander stuffed into its beak. More importantly, he had carried a black bottle very similar to the one Streng had found. Only this time it was full. Thulmann had taken the vessel to the alchemist, though the scholar assured him it would take several days to make a definitive test of its vaporous contents. On one count, however, he had been ready to deliver a guarantee — there was, he assured, certainly more than a trace of warpstone within the bottle.

  The plague doktor had spoken only little, giving Thulmann little choice but to leave the scoundrel in the capable hands of Streng. The professional torturer had been hard at work for the better part of the day. He had a particularly harsh system, tormenting the subject until he lost consciousness then awakening him minutes later. In the near-perfect darkness of the torture chamber, the prisoner had no idea of the passage of time. Streng had an amazing talent for making hours seem like days. Thulmann knew that the longer a man believed himself a captive, the weaker his resolve became.

  Thulmann paused outside the door to the torture chamber, delivering his coded knock. Streng pulled the solid oak portal inward. The bare stone walls inside were lit by the diabolic glow of a brazier. A large wooden beam crossed the ceiling, chains dangling from rings set along its length. Within two of these manacles the wrists of the plague doktor had been bound. His back was red, raw, strips of ragged cloth dripping from his shredded body. Thulmann could see livid scars and burns running along the mutant’s limbs. The witch hunter’s gaze did not linger upon the plague doktor’s visage. Unless Streng had spent an inordinate amount of time pounding the prisoner’s features into their present lack of symmetry, the doktor had more than enough reason to hide behind a mask.

  “Is the prisoner ready to confess his sins?” Thulmann demanded, his voice a theatrical snarl. Streng scowled at his master.

  “Still as tight as a clam,” the mercenary spat. “Might take another week or two to break this stubborn swine.” Thulmann could hear a soft moan of horror seep from the plague doktor’s ruined mouth. Streng’s acting ability wasn’t exactly subtle, but given the right stage he could be as convincing as Detlef Sierck.

  “M-mercy…” the thing that hung from the manacles groaned. Thulmann turned slowly toward the wretch, face twisted with scorn and contempt.

  “Mercy? For a diseased, mutant heretic?” The witch hunter stooped to glare into the ruined face. “For an unrepentant, murderous beast that revels yet in his misdeeds and blasphemies?”

  “P-please…” the plague doktor whined, his voice cracking with the effort.

  “What is your name, scum?” Thulmann demanded. This filth was desperate to make him stay, knowing full well that if Thulmann left, Streng would be set upon him again.

  “Han… Hanzel… Gruber,” the prisoner said. “I… I’ve done… nothing!”

  “Nothing.” Thulmann growled back. “Nothing. You carry a bottle of foul poison, telling unsuspecting innocents it will cure their ailments. You call that nothing?” He was guessing about their methods. But if Weichs was behind the plague doktors, such treachery was of a piece with his usual techniques. “Your mind is as riddled with corruption as your filthy body, mutant cur!”

  “Mercy… pity…” Hanzel implored. Thulmann started to pace the small chamber.

  “Mercy? Pity?” the witch hunter repeated. “Only a decent man warrants such favours, not murderous Chaos-spawn. A good man would have destroyed himself when he learned what he was becoming. A decent man would have given himself over to the Order of Sigmar, to be exterminated rather than continue his polluted existence, exposing those about him to the same abominable taint that defiled his own body. And you have allowed your villainy to plumb even greater depths. How long have you been a disciple of the Ruinous Powers? How long have you knelt before the Dark Gods and done their unholy bidding?” Thulmann gestured to indicate the malformations visible on the man’s tortured body. “Is this the mark of their favour? Tell me, mutant, which of the Lords of Chaos do you serve?”

  Hanzel’s body shook within the grip of the chains, trembling at Thulmann’s accusations, his words carrying the sting of Streng’s whip. Tortured, abused, and now condemned, the twisted creature began to weep, tears falling from his swollen eyes.

  “I… am no worshipper,” Hanzel croaked. “I serve no Dark Gods.”

  “We know better, heretic,” Thulmann snarled. “I shall hear the truth from your lips. Streng will extract the words from your rotten soul! If it takes a week, a month, even a year, I will have the truth from you, mutant.” Thulmann stopped pacing. He listened to the sob of horror from the bound Hanzel.

  “Of course, if there is some spark of humanity left within that deformed carcass, if you have the courage to defy your dark masters, you may be spared such an ordeal.” Thulmann could hear the sudden spark of hope ignite in the prisoner, a spark he hastened to quell. “You are a mutant, the seed of Chaos flows in your blood. Such corruption cannot be allowed to live. But if you will speak to me of what I wish to know, the end will be quick. Prayers shall be made that Sigmar might purify your soul when it has been expunged from its diseased shell.” The templar strode toward Hanzel. “If you speak, Streng will not touch you again. You have my word. Now. Which of the Dark Gods do you serve?”

  Hanzel sagged in the chains, weighed down by a despair his failing strength could not support. “I do not serve the… Dark Gods,” he repeated with as much force as he could. “It was a man who… who did this to me. Who made me a…thing.”

  “Which man?” Thulmann demanded. “What is his name?”

  “The doktor,” Hanzel said, the words dripping from his mouth. “Herr Doktor Weichs!”

  Thulmann grinned. He had suspected as much, but now there was no longer any question. Weichs was in Wurtbad. Only this time, there was nowhere for him to run. The witch hunter stabbed a finger at Hanzel’s miserable frame.

  “You shall tell me everything you know about this man,” Thulmann ordered. “You shall tell me how I can find him. That is how you will redeem your filthy existence. That is how you shall earn the mercy of a quick death.” In reply, Hanzel nodded his head
weakly. He was resigned to the inevitability of death, now that the witch hunter offered him a chance to strike back at the man who had made him a monster.

  Before Thulmann could continue his interrogation, there was a knock on the door. The witch hunter motioned for Streng to see who it was. He complied, peering through the narrow slit in the portal.

  “Emil,” the mercenary reported. Thulmann gestured for Streng to admit the young templar. He stepped inside, his face eager and anxious.

  “Begging your pardon, Brother Mathias,” Emil said. “A messenger from Silja Markoff to see you.” The templar’s voice became grave. “He says she needs you to come right away.”

  “Please inform the messenger I have other concerns that demand my attention here,” Thulmann replied. It cannot have been a trivial thing that caused Silja to send for him. But he was so close to finally setting a noose about the neck of Freiherr Weichs.

  “Brother Mathias,” Emil continued, “you had best come. The messenger says that Captain Meisser is burning down Otwin Keep!”

  Thulmann cursed, stalking from the torture chamber like a thing possessed. He was unsure of the purpose of Meisser’s game, but still the swine would have to be stopped. “Streng, you’d better come along too. I may need every man.” Thulmann cast one last infuriated look back at Hanzel. “Lock this door. I want no one disturbing our guest until I return.”

  Hanzel Gruber’s body grew slack as the witch hunters left, sealing the door behind him. Within the gloom of the torture chamber, the cumulative effects of terror and despair left the prisoner’s mind and body fatigued. Now both seized the opportunity to rest.

  The tired man ignored the soft scratching sound that gnawed at the edge of his senses. He did not see the trickle of dirt falling from between the stone blocks in the wall, as sharp claws began to penetrate the witch hunters’ dungeon. If he had, Hanzel would have screamed out for Thulmann to return. For there were far worse things than torture in the dark, and one of those things was now coming for Hanzel Gruber.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Otwin Keep towered above the half-timbered structures of the district around it. Although the houses, shops and tenements were clustered so closely that the lanes slithering between them scarcely allowed two men to walk abreast, the imposing stone tower stood alone. None had been bold enough to build close to the forbidding prison, unwilling for his home or business to lie within the keep’s black shadow. A stretch of some fifty yards lay empty and vacant all around the keep, its expanse all the more unnatural and intimidating for the cramped cluster of the surrounding streets.

  The tower itself was six floors of dank cells and dark corridors, encased within grey stone walls as thick as a man’s arm was long. Narrow slits peppered the face of the structure, angling downward through the outer facade before reaching the chambers within. It had been no compassionate attempt to provide the keep’s inmates with daylight, but a cruder one to improve the circulation of the air and eliminate the stench of unwashed bodies and human filth. The little windows failed in both respects, acting only to funnel the cold grip of winter into the dungeons.

  A crowd had gathered around the gruesome structure as Thulmann led his retinue of witch hunters towards the keep. Most of them wore the livery of Baron von Gotz’s personal guard, although there were others in the colours of the city watch. As Thulmann watched, the soldiers busied themselves by adding to the pile of kindling that surrounded the keep, hurling broken furniture and splintered beams. Others prowled the edges of the heap, massive stone jars held in their hands, sloshing thick black oil onto the kindling. Some distance away a large bonfire burned, its flames illuminating the brutal tableau. Even through the thick walls, Thulmann’s ears could detect the shrieks and pleas for mercy rising from those confined within the keep.

  Meisser was standing near the bonfire, dressed in the same dark mantle he had worn when Thulmann relieved him of command. The deposed witch hunter captain barked orders to the soldiers constructing the pyre, waving his hands and gesturing wildly to punctuate his commands. The image of a maestro conducting his orchestra in one of Altdorf’s elegant opera houses flickered through Thulmann’s thoughts.

  Thulmann approached the swine-faced Meisser. Some of the soldiers working on the pyre turned to watch. Meisser started when he saw Thulmann. But a smug look of superiority spread across his face.

  “Come to help me in my holy work, Brother Mathias?” Meisser grinned. Thulmann paused, the flickering light of the bonfire casting his profile in sharp relief. He studied Meisser for a moment. Then his hand released its hold upon his sword, curling into a fist as it bridged the distance and smashed into Meisser’s nose. Meisser staggered backward, a stream of blood oozing from his nostril, gawking as it stained his fingers, stunned that anyone should have the temerity to strike him. Dimly, Thulmann was aware of movement to his right. He spun around, ready to defend himself. Some of the tension eased as he saw that the men closing upon him wore the gold of the Ministry of Justice, and Silja Markoff was at their head.

  “Mathias!” Silja cried out. “He means to burn down the keep with all the inmates locked inside!” Thulmann nodded grimly, turning back to regard Meisser. The witch hunter captain was still nursing his injured nose. His lip trembled as he saw his nemesis approach him. A quick glance at the soldiers standing by the pyre informed him he could expect no help from that quarter. The oaths they had sworn to Baron von Gotz bound them to their orders, it seemed, but not to their overseer. Thulmann might beat him to a pulp and the soldiers would be content to do nothing more than watch.

  Meisser’s hand dropped away from his nose toward his tunic. At once he snarled in pain, as strong hands closed about his own and pulled his good arm behind his back. Meisser struggled in Streng’s powerful grip, spitting invective at the brutish mercenary.

  “Can’t have you shooting the gaffer now, can I?” Streng growled, giving a tug on Meisser’s arm that sent a fresh stab of pain through his body.

  “Damn you…” Meisser hissed. “I have a proclamation… orders… in my pocket.” He groaned again as Streng fumbled inside his tunic, his hand emerging with a folded sheet of parchment.

  “This looks to be what he’s whining about,” Streng said, proffering the document to Thulmann. The witch hunter unfolded it and began to read. As he did so, the greasy smile returned to Meisser’s face.

  “Release him,” Thulmann ordered. Streng stared at his employer, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses. “He has orders from Baron von Gotz himself. The baron is very concerned about the concentration of disease in this keep. This, it seems, is the solution.” With a sigh of disappointment and a last savage twist of his arm, Streng pushed Meisser away. He fell to the ground, another cry of pain escaping as he landed on his bad arm.

  “But Baron von Gotz was the one who ordered the sick to be brought here,” protested Silja. Thulmann handed the document over to her, allowing her to examine the seal and satisfy herself as to its authenticity. For his part, there was no need for further inquiry. A scheming rat like Meisser would never have been brazen enough for so bold a deception.

  “No doubt he had this second order already in mind when he gave the first,” Thulmann commented. Which, he wondered, was the worst monster at large in the city now: Sibbechai, Weichs, or His Excellency the Baron von Gotz?

  “It was decided at a meeting of all the great and good of the city,” Meisser spat as he regained his feet. He stabbed an accusing finger at Silja. “Your father was the one who proposed this action to the baron.” Silja’s face turned white. The Ministry soldiers to either side of her stepped forward to support her suddenly weakened legs. Thulmann glowered at the conniving captain, sorely tempted to finish the job of breaking his nose.

  “I don’t care who the orders come from,” Silja insisted. “You can’t do this! For Sigmar’s sake, the Sisters of Shallya are still inside!”

  “You would consign the holy servants of the goddess of mercy to a hideous death?” Thulmann demande
d. His words were intended not only for Meisser’s jaded ears. The soldiers around the walls of the keep began to back away, eyes downcast as an intense shame welled up within them.

  “They refused to leave,” Meisser protested. “They insisted on defying the baron’s order.”

  “Because they were foolish enough to think that even you would not set fire to the keep with them still inside,” Thulmann snapped back. He turned his gaze toward the soldiers. “You men have honoured your oaths and displayed your willingness to obey your masters, no matter how distasteful the task they give you. But this order is an evil!” He leaned toward the bonfire, holding the baron’s proclamation against the flames. “Lords and masters may demand many things from the men whose loyalty they command, but no man has the right to ask another to damn his immortal soul!” Thulmann held the parchment high so that the soldiers could watch it burn. Their faces betrayed the uncertainty they felt. Not one of them had been without his doubts, but now each saw he was responsible for his actions to powers far greater than that of Baron von Gotz.

  As Thulmann was beginning to think the baron’s hideous intentions had been thwarted, there was a sudden movement close beside him. Meisser had seized his chance, lunging at the bonfire, ripping a burning brand from the flames. He had allowed Thulmann to usurp his authority once before, but not this time. Before anyone could react, Meisser hurled the burning stick into the oil-soaked pile surrounding the keep. The kindling burst into an upsurge of flames, swiftly racing away to spread across the rest of the pile.

  Thulmann ripped the cloak from his shoulders, the witch hunters from the chapter house following his lead. A large number of the soldiers grabbed spears, swords and whatever else was at hand to attack the blaze. The screams from inside the keep rose into an ear-splitting din, distinct and terrible, despite the thick stone walls and the roar of the flames.