[Mathias Thulmann 03] - Witch Killer Read online

  “Did they find any more survivors?” Thulmann asked.

  “A few,” Streng replied. “Biggest group was a bunch led by some of Meisser’s men who found their way back to the surface before us. All told, the skaven accounted for sixty-five men, most of them from the cave-in. No sign of Weichs though, and they’ve been over as much of the tunnels as it’s safe to search. Looks like that animal you nabbed was telling the truth.”

  Thulmann shook his head in regret. “You’ve verified the creature’s story?”

  It was Streng’s turn to look awkward and sheepish. The mercenary avoided Thulmann’s gaze as he made his reply. “I put the thing to the question back at the chapter house. It was already injured from your bullet, though. I don’t think it could’ve lasted long in any event.”

  Thulmann sighed: so much for any hope of getting more information from the ratman.

  “There’s more, Mathias.” Streng’s voice became even more nervous, almost frightened. “When we returned to the chapter house, it was a shambles. Everyone you left there was dead. Mathias, someone stole the vampire’s body!”

  Thulmann sat bolt upright in his bed. “Gregor’s body!” The witch hunter pounded his fist against the mattress. He had determined to see for himself that the body of Gregor Klausner was properly disposed of, that the destruction of his infected remains was carried out with all the ceremony and ritual necessary to ensure that his spirit would remain at peace in the gardens of Morr. Tracking down the book and the skaven sorcerer had been a more pressing concern, however. Now he cursed his decision to pursue the skaven. There were many reasons a vampire’s body might be coveted by a practitioner of the black arts, none of them healthy.

  “What about Sibbechai’s ashes?” Thulmann demanded. The thought of Gregor’s body falling into the hands of a sorcerer was sickening enough, but the theft of Sibbechai’s remains was even more terrible. The essence of a vampire was bound to its carcass, a bond that could be severed only through extensive ritual and prayer. It was not unknown for a vampire’s body to be restored through dark sorcery.

  “Stolen as well,” Streng said. “Ehrhardt has his templars scouring the cemeteries and plague pits looking for any sign of them.”

  Thulmann sank back wearily into his pillows. “If we couldn’t find Sibbechai before, we won’t find it now. Whatever human agency has been helping the vampire apparently continues to do so.”

  “What will you do?” Silja asked. It was a question that Thulmann didn’t want to answer. He wanted to stay in Wurtbad to find Gregor’s body and make certain that his spirit had been allowed to stay at peace. He wanted to rip open every tomb and crypt in the city and see for himself that Sibbechai had not been restored to unholy life, but what he wanted and what he needed to do were two different things.

  “This changes nothing,” Thulmann said. “I must find Helmuth Klausner’s grimoire and see it destroyed before anyone else can tap into its unholy powers. If what we fear has come to pass, if Sibbechai has been restored, then I think the same purpose will drive the vampire. It too will be hunting the book. If I find it, then the vampire will come to me.”

  Carandini crouched on the floor of the fishmonger’s hut, black candles flickering to either side of him. Resting on the ground was a ghastly sight — a great strip of flayed human skin spread out across the floor like a roll of parchment. Even if Gregor had refused Carandini’s gift, the necromancer had found another use for what he had trapped inside his bag.

  The strange words slithering past the necromancer’s lips seemed heavy with the ancient past. Carandini carefully set a jar of ink on the edge of his morbid parchment, ink crafted in part from the blood of murderers. Beside it he set an even more repellent object, a withered human claw, its shrivelled shape bound in mouldering tomb wrappings. He carefully and deliberately dipped each of the claw’s fingers into the ink.

  There was a strange timidity in the necromancer’s actions. The claw of Nehb-ka-Menthu, ancient tomb king of Khaerops, was the most potent of his sorcerous talismans, an object always to be treated with respect and caution, but there was something different about it this evening. Perhaps it was something to do with the change he perceived in the winds of magic, the growing strength in the ether and most particularly the baleful energies associated with dark magic and the black arts.

  The necromancer brushed aside his doubts and fears, setting the claw down upon the skin. As he continued to chant the sibilant tones of the incantation, Carandini focused his will on the claw. He could feel the lingering strands of Nehb-ka-Menthu’s spirit gathering around the claw. As he had done many times before, the necromancer bent his mind and soul towards subduing the spirit of the ancient tomb king and binding it to his power. As before, the residue of the mummy’s essence struggled to resist him, to refuse his commands with all the malice the dead reserve for the living.

  This time, however, the mummy’s spirit did not relent as Carandini exerted his will upon it. The necromancer could feel Nehb-ka-Menthu drawing power from the swollen magical energy in the air. He could feel the spirit’s resistance growing, fighting against him… and winning. Carandini’s body doubled over in pain as the tomb king’s wrath boiled over into the necromancer’s flesh.

  You will never be what I should have become.

  In his mind’s eye, Carandini could see the cadaverous face of the tomb king glaring at him with immeasurable hate. He fought to concentrate on his physical surroundings rather than his spectral vision, but even so slight an effort of will power was a struggle. He could feel his heart slowing and his lungs collapsing as the malevolent spirit began to drain the life from him. Carandini’s body trembled like a sapling in a storm as he reached towards the black candles flanking him. The necromancer focused every scrap of his being into reaching out with his shaking hand and snuffing out the candle on his right.

  The instant the dancing flame was extinguished, the invisible grip on his heart was gone, the smothering pressure on his lungs vanished. Carandini sank back, breathing heavily as he struggled to recover from his ordeal. He looked with disgust at the mummy’s talon. The dismembered limb had crawled off the parchment, its lifeless fingers clinging to the hem of his cassock. What, he wondered, would it have done had he not ended the ritual when he did? Carandini shuddered and pried the dead fingers free, stuffing the talisman back into the leather satchel.

  The claw was too dangerous to consult with the concentration of dark magic in the air. Just as Carandini’s black arts were magnified by the sorcerous energies, so too was the undead spirit of Nehb-ka-Menthu. He had thought to use the claw to divine the whereabouts of Das Buch die Unholden. Now he would need to find it some other way… before someone else did.

  The thought gave Carandini pause. The witch hunter would still be looking for the book, that much Carandini had gleaned from the servant Eldred before he decided the man was of no further use. If he was clever and careful, maybe he could let the witch hunter do some of the work for him? It would just be a matter of keeping track of the man’s movements, and, when the time was right, extracting the information he needed.

  Carandini wiped a greasy lock of hair from his face and smiled. After all the complications the witch hunter had caused him, first in Klausberg and now in Wurtbad, enticing him to reveal his secrets was something Carandini was certain to enjoy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was twilight when Mathias Thulmann led his horse down the creaking wooden pier. His convalescence in the palace had forced him to delegate much of the work he would otherwise have taken upon himself. He could not quite shake himself free from guilt over his forced rest. He felt that perhaps with him leading the effort the templars would have found the hiding place of Sibbechai and its minions. Still, with men like Emil and Father Kreutzberg of the temple of Morr leading the hunt, the work rested in the hands of good and capable men. It was the only silver lining in the black cloud that had settled over him since the theft of Gregor’s corpse and the vampire’s ashes.

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nbsp; “Look at that,” Streng said from beside him. The unkempt mercenary gestured to the river. Even at such a late hour, the docks were a frenzy of activity with every manner of cargo vessel tied to the moorings and being hastily unloaded. On the water, the black bulks and flickering lights of other ships could be seen, ready to slide into position as soon as a space became free.

  “The vultures gather,” Thulmann observed, voice dripping with contempt. News that the quarantine had been lifted had spread along the Stir even faster than news of the plague. In response, every merchant with stores of provisions and access to the river had descended upon the city. Greed, not concern for their fellow man, moved the merchants to such impassioned enterprise. The markets of Wurtbad were both desperate and frightened. These fresh goods would command prices five times what they would in the more stable towns and villages of Stirland and Talabecland.

  Streng shook his head as he saw Thulmann glaring at the merchantmen and the frenzied activity surrounding them. He set his hand against his master’s shoulder and redirected the witch hunter’s attention. The Arnhelm stood apart from the other ships. Here the docks were deserted… deserted except for the massive armoured man who loomed beside the gangplank, his immense zweihander resting casually across his left shoulder. Thulmann nodded respectfully to the Black Guardsman as he approached the gangplank of the Arnhelm.

  “Captain-Justicar Ehrhardt,” Thulmann said. “How very nice of you to see me off. I wanted to thank you for your valiant assistance. But for your strength and courage I would’ve been rat food several times over. I think Wurtbad little appreciates the noble protector they have in you.”

  The black-shrouded knight bowed in return. “Wurtbad will have to do without its protector for a time. I have it in mind to accompany you, to see this affair through to its end.”

  “Then you still believe skaven to be the concern of Morr’s Black Guard?” Thulmann asked.

  “Filling Morr’s gardens with plague, digging them up to steal bodies, and raising those bodies as undead abominations. There have been enough affronts to Morr’s authority and dominion to justify every templar in Wurtbad accompanying you,” Ehrhardt said. “Father Kreutzberg and I reached a compromise.”

  “You alone instead of all your Black Guardsmen?” Thulmann asked. Ehrhardt bowed his shaved head. Thulmann nodded in agreement. Unlike many of his order, he was not averse to working with elements from the other faiths of the Empire, not when they shared a common cause and a common purpose.

  “It seems, then, captain-justicar, your city will need to do without you,” Thulmann said. “Your aid has been considerable. I am certain it will continue to be so. What say you, Streng?”

  The mercenary scratched his scraggly beard. “So long as he shares in the work and not in the pay, I’m agreeable.”

  “Then perhaps you won’t mind more company.”

  All three men turned at the soft, feminine voice. Thulmann had hoped to avoid any complications now that he was leaving Wurtbad, but as so often happened, his hopes were sadly at odds with reality. Standing on the pier, wearing a loose shirt, leather vest and tight riding breeches, was Silja Markoff. A flicker of joy flashed in the witch hunter as he saw her, but was quickly smothered by an even heavier cloud of gloom. Silja read the play of emotions in his eyes, her own look darkening.

  “I asked myself why my good friend, my comrade in arms, Mathias, didn’t stay around long enough to say goodbye.” Silja stalked forwards. At her approach, Ehrhardt and Streng stepped away from the witch hunter. Sticking by Thulmann’s side in the face of daemons and rat ogres was one thing, but neither man wanted any part in the templar’s current peril.

  “You are a cultured, refined man,” Silja continued, “surely considerate enough to treat me with more respect than some ten-shilling strumpet.” The accusation brought colour to Thulmann’s face and a coarse laugh from Streng. “Then I considered that maybe the reason you didn’t say goodbye was that you wanted me to go with you, that your snubbing me was simply a backhanded call for my help.”

  Thulmann swallowed. The truth of the matter was that he had avoided Silja after he had arranged the use of a ship with Baroness von Gotz. He didn’t trust his feelings for the woman. It had been a long time since he had thought of someone the way he was beginning to think of Silja.

  “Lady Markoff, I only thought to spare you the pain—”

  “What? By slinking from the city like some thief in the night!” Silja’s voice cracked with anger. “Oh yes, that is much more compassionate. Now step aside and tell these idiots to let me board.”

  Thulmann stepped into Silja’s way, gripping her shoulders. He stared solemnly into her flustered features.

  “This hunt will take me into danger…” he began.

  Silja pulled away from him, storming past Thulmann and up the gangplank of the Arnhelm.

  “Well, maybe there’s some hot blood flowing in your veins after all,” Streng quipped as he watched Silja stalk away. Thulmann didn’t seem to notice his henchman’s jibe. His mind was elsewhere.

  Streng shook his head as he observed the faraway look in his employer’s eyes. “Just remember, she ain’t on the payroll either,” the mercenary warned, his tone less amused than before.

  Cold eyes watched as the Arnhelm pulled away from the dock back into the river. It had not been difficult to determine which ship the witch hunter would be leaving on. Other vessels had departed the waterfront as quickly as their cargoes were unloaded, eager to put Wurtbad and the lingering dread of plague behind them. The Arnhelm, however, had sat at her moorings for nearly the entire day. It had just been a question of waiting.

  “And he’s off,” Carandini hissed. “Where are you off to in such a hurry, I wonder?” His chest heaved as he croaked a hoarse laugh. “I’ll be finding that out quite soon.” The necromancer moved away from the window of the ramshackle warehouse from which he had been observing the harbour. “Time we were leaving too,” he said. The mob of slouching, slack-jawed shapes clustered around the room stiffened as their master spoke. Carandini turned his attention from the automatons to his other minion. Gregor was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, and the shrivelled carcasses of half a dozen rats strewn around him. The vampire’s pale face was a mixture of shame and hate as he looked up at Carandini.

  “Now we simply procure passage on a ship and follow the witch hunter,” Carandini said. “The Stir is quite wide and quite deep. Ships vanish without a trace all the time. No one will ever know what happened to Mathias Thulmann.”

  Gregor felt the remains of his soul darken just a little more as he heard the necromancer’s murderous plot.

  Thulmann stared out into the swift-moving river, watching the moons dance across the current. It was strange to think that they were the same moons as they had been all those years ago. So much had changed; so much had been destroyed, yet Mannsleib remained as it had ever been. As it had been that night when he had proposed to Anya.

  The witch hunter closed his eyes, seeing her face again, imagining the fragrant smell of her hair, the cool softness of her skin, the curve of her lips as they smiled, and the shine of love in her eyes. Thulmann opened his eyes quickly, before the memories could blacken. Even the memory of love had been stolen from him, every happy moment they had shared consumed by that final, hideous horror.

  “What were you thinking about?”

  Thulmann was startled to find Silja standing beside him at the rail of the ship, her flaxen hair whipping around her shoulders in the cool autumn breeze. He looked back at the river, but now found his eyes drawn not to the reflections of the moons, but to that of the woman next to him.

  “I was thinking about Altdorf, and the things I must do when I get there,” he said. It was not an untruth, in its way.

  “It will probably sound strange to you, but I have never been to Altdorf,” Silja said. “I understand it is many times the size of Wurtbad.”

  “Forgive me, Lady Markoff,” the witch hunter said. “River tr
avel does not agree with me. I think I had best retire.” He did not give Silja the chance to respond, hastily retreating below decks, trying to outrun the dark memories swirling around him.

  Silja watched Thulmann depart. For all that she felt for him, she knew very little about the man. Perhaps there was already a woman in his life, maybe even a wife.

  She spotted Streng sitting on a coil of rope at the base of the mainmast. The witch hunter was a secretive, close-mouthed man, as his vocation demanded, but Streng was quite a different creature. The mercenary winked at Silja as she walked towards him. She could smell the ale on his breath.

  “Finally had a bellyful of all that pious chapel-talk, eh?” Streng took another swig from the bottle gripped in his grimy fist. “I’m not surprised. Red-blooded lass like you can only listen to so much o’ that rot!” Streng slapped his knee. “Come here and have a seat. I promise to share the booze.”

  “You’ve been with Mathias for quite some time, haven’t you?” Silja asked, keeping far enough from Streng to avoid the worst of the alcohol fumes.

  The mercenary nodded. “Several years,” he answered.

  “He seemed very disturbed about returning to Altdorf,” Silja said. “Do you know why?”

  “There’s someone he’s going to see,” the mercenary said. “Someone he should’ve killed and had done with a long time ago.”

  Streng returned to his bottle and refused to elaborate on what he had told her.

  * * *

  The witch hunter awoke with a start, his face dripping with perspiration. He rose from the bed, his limbs shaking as the nightmare slowly drained from him. He was just reaching for the small jug of water when a pounding knock sounded at the door of his cabin.

  “Brother Mathias,” Ehrhardt’s deep voice sounded from the other side of the door. “Come on deck at once.” Thulmann pulled open the door, finding the knight’s armoured bulk blotting out what little light flickered in the corridor.