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Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

The shrieks of the old hag echoed within the vast courtyard outside the massive grey-stone fortress at the heart of Wurtbad long after smoke ceased to rise from the pyre. The assemblage of officials and lower nobility who had emerged from the fortress to observe the ghoulish spectacle began to file back through the gaping gateway. The massed crowd of commoners lingered on, watching with rapt attention every curl of smoke that rose from the smouldering remains. It had been they who had felt threatened by the gruesome predations of the crone’s monstrosity, and it was with a mixture of relief and satisfaction that they had watched the hag burn.

Burning was an ugly, terrible death and Chanta Favna had been a long time in the dying. Mathias Thulmann had not departed with the rest of the officials, but had stood before the blackened scaffold to the last, lingering until the merest wisp of smoke was no more, his leather gauntlet resting loosely upon the hilt of his sword, his black cape snapping about him in the fiery breeze wafting from the conflagration. The witch hunter had witnessed many such scenes and always they sickened him. A more wretched and loathsome end he could not easily imagine, unless it was to wallow in the depths of villainy and perversion to which such creatures willingly committed themselves.

Yes, the end of a witch was an ugly thing, but ugliness was necessary, a vital part of the grand theatre that was at the very of such executions. There was no question of justice when it came to such things, for whatever evil witches and warlocks had perpetuated was beyond the reach of that within the world of men; there would be a higher authority who would exact retribution upon them. No, the execution of a witch had little enough of punishment to it, a measure of revenge, perhaps, for what that might achieve.

The true purpose of these gruesome displays was for the benefit of those who observed them. The execution of a witch was a cautionary tale brought to life, a terrible parable to evoke horror and repugnance, to make the mind of the commoner shudder and cringe. There were two ways to rule the hearts and minds of men. The noblest of souls could be swayed by love and devotion, but for the rest, for the vast petty masses of humanity, fear was the only thing that could cow them. And fear was a witch hunter’s merchandise in trade.

Thulmann studied the crowd of city-dwellers, who were only now beginning to make their way from the courtyard. He watched them depart, fixing upon faces white with horror or glowing with satisfaction. The crowds were always the same, numbering amongst them the appalled and the self-righteous. The witch hunter grimaced as he considered the men and women, the nameless faces of the mob.

Mathias Thulmann strode away from the vast heap of ash and charred timber. The priests of Morr were waiting, spades stabbed into the ground beside them, waiting to conduct the ashes to the unhallowed spot outside the gardens of the dead reserved for sorcerers and heretics. No marker graced the grave of a witch, no mourner wept at the passing of such a creature. A miserable end to a miserable life.

The stocky figure of Streng detached itself from the wall of a cooper’s shop facing the square, a partly drained flagon of ale in his grimy fingers. The bearded mercenary took another sip of his devil’s brew, then smiled at his employer.

‘She took a long time, eh Mathias? I wouldn’t have thought the old bird had that much squawk left in her.’ Streng gave vent to a short snort of brutal amusement. ‘Not after I got through with her at any rate.’

Thulmann strode past his henchman. ‘Your skill at wresting the truth from sealed lips is quite notable, Streng, and of great value to me. But for all of that, I find it no less distasteful.’ The witch hunter continued on his way, not waiting to see if the thug would follow after him, stalking through the narrow streets of Wurtbad like some grim apparition.

‘Keeps you from getting your hands dirty, doesn’t it, sir,’ the torturer observed, his tone indignant.

‘So do the labours of a dung gatherer, yet I hold him in no great regard either.’ The witch hunter paused, observing that his path had brought him to the inn where they had lodgings. He reached into the inner pocket of his scarlet tunic, removing a small pouch. Without looking back, he tossed the object to Streng. The pouch landed in the street to the sound of jangling silver. The mercenary reached into the gutter and retrieved his payment.

‘Don’t think your hands are any cleaner,’ Streng told his employer as he counted out the coins into his hand. ‘I may break them for you, but you are the one who does the catching. There is just as much blood on your hands as there is on mine.’ A wicked leer spread across the ruffian’s face. ‘I reckon we’re more alike than you’d willing to admit.’

Thulmann turned back from the doorway of the inn. ‘There is a difference between what you do and what I do, Streng. I do what I do in the service of Lord Sigmar. You do what you do for coin and the base pleasures it can buy you.’

The hireling bristled under the venomous comment.

‘If you’ll not be needing me further, sir, I’ll be retiring to pursue some of those “base pleasures”, as you call them.’

‘See that you are sober enough to be of some measure of use in the morning,’ warned the witch hunter as his henchman retreated along the street.

Without waiting for further comment from the torturer, Mathias Thulmann stalked into the Seven Candles.

The Seven Candles was one of Wurtbad’s finest inns, its cellars and pantry among the very best the city had to offer. Its rooms were spacious, its bedding clean, its serving wenches pretty and amiable. Yet despite these qualities, the common room was all but deserted, only a pair of subdued soldiers sitting at the benches, casting sidelong glances at the sinister witch hunter. Thulmann did not meet their furtive gaze, knowing well the mixture of guilt and fear he would find in their eyes. He had seen such looks before. Every man, if he was honest with himself, felt deep in his heart that he had failed his god in some way. Perhaps he did not attend services as often as he should, perhaps he did not pray as often as he might. Had he neglected to tithe a portion of his silver to the temple, or maybe spoken an impious thought? Sigmar was a loving god, but also a stern one. Would he readily forgive such indiscretions? A witch hunter was a living, breathing reminder that one day all failings would be judged, and perhaps sooner rather than later.

It was that guilty unease which the witch hunter’s presence evoked that had depopulated the Seven Candles. As the portly owner of the inn scrambled from behind his counter to fawningly inquire as to Thulmann’s needs, the witch hunter knew the question that was foremost in the innkeeper’s mind, the one question which the little man would never be able to nerve himself enough to ask. And when will you be leaving so that my custom will return?

‘Wine and some roast pheasant, if you please innkeeper,’ Thulmann addressed the proprietor as the man nervously strode towards him. ‘I will sup in my rooms this evening.’ The witch hunter cast an imperious gaze across the all but vacant common room. ‘The atmosphere here is rather cheerless tonight.’

The innkeeper bobbed his head in acknowledgement of the witch hunter’s demands and hurriedly retreated back into the kitchen to hasten his cook about preparing the templar’s meal. Thulmann left the man to his labours and ascended the wide staircase that rose to the private bedrooms above.

Mathias Thulmann, as usual for him, had taken the finest room in the Seven Candles, relocating the previous occupant to the local magistrate’s dungeon on suspicion of being a mutant. He’d have the arrogant wine merchant released upon his departure from Wurtbad, certain that the man would be a much better Sigmarite for his harrowing, and humbling, experience. It was part and parcel of Thulmann’s philosophy that as representatives of Sigmar’s continuing sovereignty over the lives and souls of the people of the Empire that witch hunters were due every courtesy and consideration. It was a reminder to every man that to be a good Sigmarite, sacrifices needed to be made, even if only such sacrifices as might be extracted from a money belt. Besides, it was well to illustrate to the common man that by devoting themselves completely and fully to Sigmar they would be rewarded, not simply in the next world, but in this one as well. The respect of even the most noble could be any man’s if he but had the courage, determination and devotion to prevail.

The witch hunter smiled to himself as he opened the door to his room and sank into the upholstered chair that faced out upon the chamber’s view of the clustered rooftops of Wurtbad. After all, one who fought daemons and all the other misshapen abominations that lurked in the black corners of the Empire deserved a few comforts. A comfortable bed, generous provisions and a decent bottle of wine were not really so much to ask of those whose souls it was his sworn duty to protect from the things that would prey upon them.

And yet, no man was infallible. Thulmann considered again the screams of the wretched Chanta Favna as the ancient hag had been greedily consumed by the flames of her pyre. He had nothing but contempt for creatures such as the old witch, they were beneath pity or regret. Exterminating such practitioners of foul and proscribed sorceries was a just and proper thing, a sacred obligation necessary to ensure the continued security of the Empire. But it was not witches and necromancers alone which Thulmann had consigned to the flames. There had been many others, those who did deserve some pity, those who were not unworthy of some measure of sympathy. The evil he fought against was like a malignant plague, striking indiscriminately. The mark of Chaos did not restrict itself to those who invited it into their souls. It could infest even the most innocent, twisting first their bodies then their minds, slowly and insidiously sapping their strength until at last it did corrupt them completely.

Suddenly the source for his ill humour and harsh words to his henchman rose to the forefront of his mind. After the execution, his gaze had lingered upon a face in the crowd that had gathered to watch the destruction of the witch. It had been the face of a woman, soft and comely, filled with fascination and revulsion as she watched the flames consume the murderous crone. But the spectator’s face had been more to Mathias Thulmann than a remarkable countenance amidst the crowd, for it had recalled the face of another woman. It had been a window into the past, an unwelcome reminder of another pyre which the witch hunter had lit over a year ago.

Mathias Thulmann could remember every moment of that incident. The report of a taint in the noble house of Von Lichtberg, the swift investigation set into motion upon his arrival, the brutal attentions of Streng as he put the chief suspects to the question. The girl had been the source of that taint, her body infested with a seed of Chaos, a mutant thing that could not be born into a sane world, and a womb that could never be allowed to produce another. She had been innocent of any profane sorceries or heathen witchcraft, innocent of all those twisted deeds and malevolent desires that made it so very easy to perform his duties. No, her only fault had been to heed the advice of a crackpot physician and to love the son of a nobleman. And for that, she had been tortured and finally destroyed.

The witch hunter rose from his chair, the unpleasant memories coming more rapidly now. He’d shown leniency toward the poor girl’s lover, the young Baronet Reinhardt von Lichtberg. Knowing him to be free of any taint, he’d ordered the boy to be released. It was a decision that continued to haunt him. He should have had the boy destroyed as well, for he had seen the rage and bloodlust in those young eyes. Indeed, Reinhardt von Lichtberg had pursued the witch hunter across half the province of Stirland, catching up with him in the small village of Kleinsdorf. Their meeting had been a violent one, but again the witch hunter had been lenient, leaving the vengeful youth wounded, but alive, following their encounter. It was a foolish thing to have done. He should have had the boy destroyed for seeking to harm an officer of the Temple. But somehow Thulmann could not bring himself to regret his unwise mercy. Somehow, the knowledge that Reinhardt von Lichtberg was out there somewhere, alive, even if thirsting for the witch hunter’s blood, lessened to some degree the lingering sense of guilt Thulmann felt for the regrettable execution of the girl.

There was only one thing that would fully assuage that guilt. For long months now Thulmann had been on the trail of the man responsible for the girl’s corruption, the old family physician of the von Lichtbergs, a villain named Freiherr Weichs. Herr Doktor Freiherr Weichs had talked the poor girl into taking a vile concoction of his own devising that he swore to her would dissipate the unborn and unwanted life growing within her belly. But that elixir had been poison, containing the foul substance known as warpstone. Far from destroying the unborn life, it had changed it, and with it the woman herself, polluting her blood with the black filth of mutation and Chaos. Thulmann had sworn an oath to hunt down the physician as he watched the flames devour the girl, and had spent the better part of a year doing just that. Even as Reinhardt von Lichtberg stalked him, so did he stalk the true source of the boy’s misery. That trail had led him across three provinces, but at last the witch hunter felt he was drawing near to his quarry.

Mathias Thulmann stared out the window, gazing once more across the rooftops of Wurtbad. Somewhere amidst the bustle and confusion of the city, he would find Doktor Freiherr Weichs. And when he did, he would pile the Doktor’s pyre so high they would see the fire even in Altdorf. The incident with Chanta Favna had been a necessary delay in his hunt, but now there would be no further distractions. The man who had hired the witch was in custody and would join her as soon as Meisser finished going through the motions of a trail. The man had thought to control the river trade in Wurtbad through his scheme, now he was going to discover that he’d lost not simply his wealth and position, but his life and very soul by contemplating it.

It did not matter to Thulmann, in the end, that Meisser would take most of the credit for putting an end to the witch and her murderous creation, for unmasking the villain who had made her witchcraft a part of his plotting. That the horror had been brought to an end, that the guilty would meet justice was all that mattered to him. After all, that was all that would matter to Most Holy Sigmar.

Mathias Thulmann looked up from his meal as he heard the soft, subdued sound of knocking at his door. The interruption put the templar in an even blacker mood and it was with an imperious tone that he commanded the supplicant to enter and state his business. The door swung inward and the portly innkeeper darted his head into the room.

‘Forgive me, sir, but there is a man here to see you.’

‘He can wait until I have finished this mediocre dinner you have seen fit to try and poison me with,’ Thulmann snapped back. The innkeeper grew slightly more pale as Thulmann made his displeasure known, horrified that the meal had not been to the witch hunter’s liking. Thulmann was certain that their conversation had ended and returned to attacking his plate. When he looked up again, he was surprised to see the man still standing at the door.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think your visitor is the kind to be kept waiting.’ The innkeeper cringed as he saw Thulmann raise a questioning eyebrow.

‘You’ve intrigued me,’ the witch hunter stated matter-of-factly. He lifted a napkin to his face and wiped away the residue from his unfinished meal. ‘I wonder what sort of man you seem to think is so important that he should take a templar knight of Sigmar away from his humble victuals.’

‘He’s downstairs,’ the heavy-set man stammered. ‘Says his name is Lord Sforza Zerndorff.’ The innkeeper made the sign of the hammer as he spoke the name. ‘Says he’s from Altdorf. Says he’s a witch hunter like yourself.’

Sforza Zerndorff was seated upon one of the benches that rested against either side of the common room’s three massive tables. Except for him, there were only two others in the room. But these were no simple off duty watchmen. These were soldiers of a different cast, their liveries black as pitch, massive swords sheathed at their sides, huge pectorals depicting the twin-tailed comet of Sigmar hanging from huge silver chains upon their breasts.

Zerndorff himself was much smaller than his bodyguards, stocky and full in his figure where the two guards were lean and powerful. However, there was no mistaking the strength and authority of the smaller man, his piercing blue eyes considering his surroundings with a haughty air of disdain. Zerndorff idly tapped the polished top of the table with the tip of a small black-hilted dagger as Thulmann strode into the hall.

‘Ah, Thulmann,’ the dignitary said, his voice conveying irritation. ‘I was beginning to think you’d perhaps gone to Altdorf to look for me. Or perhaps my messenger did not deliver my summons promptly?’ Zerndorff sent a look of displeasure at the innkeeper who swiftly scuttled away into the kitchens.

‘Forgive my delay, Lord Zerndorff,’ Thulmann said to the seated dignitary. Zerndorff motioned for the other witch hunter to join him, deciding to ignore the lack of contrition in the manner with which Thulmann voiced his apology.

‘I have little time to waste Thulmann,’ Zerndorff said, ‘so I will cut to the chase. I have need of someone I can trust. As you know, with the rather ugly business that has come forward in the aftermath of Lord Thaddeus Gamow’s death, the entire hierarchy of our order has been restructured. There is no longer a position of Lord Protector of the Faith, instead the Grand Theogonist has appointed three Witch Hunter Generals to share authority over the order.’ Zerndorff paused, favouring Thulmann with a sly smile of superiority. ‘It may be of some small interest to you to know that I have been appointed Witch Hunter General South.’

‘Congratulations,’ Thulmann told Zerndorff, the hostile emotion boiling within him held in check only by a supreme effort of will.

‘Thank you,’ Zerndorff replied, nodding. His smile faded away and his expression grew grave. ‘I know that we have had our troubles in the past and there is no love lost between us. But I also appreciate that you are a man of conviction, that your faith in Lord Sigmar is absolute and total. This accounts for much these days, much more than any personal animosity that lies between us.’

‘I understood that there was something you wished of me,’ Thulmann interjected.

‘Just so,’ Zerndorff answered. ‘As you can imagine, the restructuring of the order has not been accomplished without a great deal of bad feeling on the part of those whose power, or ambitions for power, has been compromised as a result of the abolishment of the post of Lord Protector. The Great Temple in Altdorf is a nest of plotters and schemers these days, accusation and rumour as plentiful as sand in the desert of Araby. Everyone seeks to discredit everyone else and even the Grand Theogonist is not without his detractors. Indeed, there are some who try to connect Volkmar with Gamow’s heresy, try to say that his restructuring of the order is a heretical plot to weaken the temple and reduce the efficiency of the witch hunters rather than a measure to protect against the possibility of another Gamow.

‘You are an honest and loyal man, Mathias, and I trust in your devotion to the temple, even if I question your methods. There is a matter in which I need someone of such conviction, someone I know to be above the petty schemes and plots running rife in Altdorf. Rumours have reached my office, disturbing rumours that give me cause for concern.’ The Witch Hunter General’s demeanour became somewhat furtive and it was with a slightly lowered voice that he continued.

‘You have heard no doubt of the Klausner family?’ Zerndorff asked.

‘The name is familiar, though I cannot say that the particulars stand out in my mind,’ Thulmann replied somewhat warily.

Zerndorff leaned forward, his fingers steepled on top of the table.

‘The Klausners are an old and highly respected family,’ Zerndorff told him. ‘Very devout Sigmarites, and very zealous in their faith. Many of them have been priests and templars over the years, and not a few of them have achieved rather respectable distinction. The family can trace its roots back five hundred years. They were awarded a small holding south of here in 2013, and have lorded over it ever since, their district notable for its very generous tithes of money and crops to the temple. Klausberg, they named it, farm and pasture country, somewhat renowned for the quality of their cattle. The present patriarch of the family and lord of Klausberg, Wilhelm Klausner, is a personal friend of the Grand Theogonist himself.

‘You will understand then, why when rumours that something strange and terrible has made its presence known in Klausberg that I was immediately interested.’ Zerndorff’s voice dripped into an almost conspiratorial whisper. ‘Something is killing the people of Klausberg. Something unnatural and unholy, if the tales coming out of there are to be believed.’

‘What sort of tales?’ Thulmann asked, feeling himself drawn into Zerndorff’s theatrics despite his determination not to suffer the man’s manipulative tricks.

‘Tales of men stolen from their beds in the dead of night,’ Zerndorff said, ‘only to be found in some field or hollow in the morning, face ripped away, innards spilled about the ground. Tales of young maidens walking home from tending their flocks never to be seen alive again, taken by the daemon beast that stalks unhindered about the land. If we were to trust the frightened gossip that has trickled into the ears of my informants, then this daemon creature has already claimed a hundred lives, adding another corpse to its tally almost every night.’

‘Surely an exaggeration,’ observed Thulmann.

‘Oh, doubtless the stories have grown in the telling,’ Zerndorff admitted, a smug smile on his face. ‘But even such tales have some truth at their root. Something is going on in Klausberg, something is killing people there. And whatever it is doesn’t behave like an animal or an orc or a beastman or any of the other murderous things the people of our troubled land are used to coping with. There is something very unusual about the murders in Klausberg. Given the history of the ruling family, it is not impossible that some sinister enemy of the temple has chosen to wreck havoc upon their lands.’

‘I have my own investigations to conduct here in Wurtbad,’ Thulmann informed his superior.

Zerndorff shook his head.

‘You will have to set all other matters aside,’ he told Thulmann. ‘Instruct Meisser in what needs to be done. I want you to look into what is going on in Klausberg. I need to know what is happening, the nature of the fiend that is preying upon the lands of the Grand Theogonist’s friend. I need to know if this is the opening stroke in some larger plot to discredit or destroy the Grand Theogonist’s chief supporters. I have grave concerns that those behind such a plot might be secret disciples of Gamow who may yet operate within the temple. I want you to go there and learn if my fears are well founded.’ Zerndorff rose to his feet, retrieving his soft, almost shapeless silk hat from its place on the table.

‘I know that I can trust you to not fail the temple in this matter, and to be discreet about whom you inform of your findings,’ he said. Zerndorff lingered for a moment as his bodyguard opened the inn door. When one of the soldiers signalled that all was in order, Sforza Zerndorff strode out to the carriage awaiting him outside, without a backward glance.

Mathias Thulmann watched the retreating Witch Hunter General’s back, his sullen gaze watching the short man’s every step, his manner the same as that of a herd dog keeping a close eye on a prowling wolf. Even after Zerndorff was gone, Thulmann kept an easy hand on the hilt of his sword.

Witch Hunter General South. It was sometimes difficult to maintain faith in justice when it seemed that villainy was rewarded at every turn. Thulmann had worked with Zerndorff long ago, an association which he held no pride in. Zerndorff was a ruthless man, a callous man and above all an ambitious man. His methods were centred more upon speed and efficiency than they were upon protecting the innocent and punishing the guilty. Zerndorff practised his trade with the same wanton brutality which had characterised the templar knights during the dark days of the Three Emperors. He gave no thought to proving guilt, even less thought to the possibility of executing an innocent man or woman.

For Zerndorff, it was the number and frequency of executions that mattered. Those suspected of some heresy were tried and convicted as soon as their name was made known to him, all else was simply tradition; breaking the suspect on the rack, wringing a confession from their bloody lips, these were nothing more than theatre, placating a secular system of law which Zerndorff felt did not apply to him. He was the sort of man who would cure a crop of weevils by putting it to the torch. Yet this was just the sort of man who had earned the attention of Altdorf, the sort of man who had been promoted to a position that gave him power over a third of the Empire. Thulmann struck his fist into the palm of his hand, cursing the inequity of Zerndorff’s good fortune.

That Zerndorff had chosen Thulmann to look into the incidents in Klausberg was, the witch hunter was certain, simply Zerndorff’s way of exerting his newly granted authority over his one time associate, of reminding Thulmann of how greatly their positions had changed. That it interfered with Thulmann’s own affairs made the matter all the more pleasing to Zerndorff, Thulmann was certain. That the man he hunted might escape once again while Thulmann was on his fool’s errand would not have concerned Zerndorff in the slightest. They could always find another witch to burn. Most likely, when he arrived in Klausberg, Thulmann would learn that the incident was nothing more than the work of a pack of wolves or a band of goblins, despite Zerndorff’s insistence that it was something more.

The witch hunter paused as he began to consider this light dismissal of Zerndorff’s assignment. True, his old rival was a petty and malicious man, but he was also a man who was obsessed with efficiency. If he had made the trip down from Altdorf, there had been more to his journey than trying to put Thulmann in his place. Zerndorff could have simply sent a messenger for something so inconsequential. No, there must be something behind the Witch Hunter General’s suspicions, something that Zerndorff expected to profit from by investigating. But what? The Klausners were old friends of the Grand Theogonist. Zerndorff’s own familiarity with Volkmar could hardly be considered so amicable. Why then was Zerndorff so interested in the safety of a house that was so supportive of the Grand Theogonist? Did he really think to expose some conspiracy against Volkmar, or did he perhaps hope to gain control of it?

Mathias Thulmann stared once again at the door through which Sforza Zerndorff had departed. What would he find in Klausberg?

The tiny room was barely five paces wide and only a little greater in depth, its walls of bare black stone illuminated only by the flickering fingers of flame rising from the double-headed candlestick that rested below a small altar. Two doors were set against the walls to left and right of the altar, doors that connected to rooms where warmth and comfort were not considered impious and improper. The air within the cell-like chamber was chill and carried with it the dampness of the outer walls of the old keep.

The small room’s sole occupant shuddered in the cold draft, drawing the heavy wool cloak a bit tighter about his scrawny frame. He was far from young and noted the creeping chill far more than any other in his household. Yet he had attended his midnight devotions here, in this small chapel set between the master bedchamber and the one set aside for the lady of the keep, for more than a quarter of a century, and he would never forsake his pious ablutions. Indeed, there were few things that could quiet old Wilhelm Klausner’s troubled mind in the long watches of the night sufficiently to allow him to sleep. The calming peace of casting his respectful gaze upon the heavy steel hammer resting upon the altar was one of them. A devout Sigmarite all his life, it did Wilhelm’s soul good to think that the patron god of the Empire was looking down upon him.

Wilhelm’s hands were thin and pale, blotched and devoid of both strength and substance. The massive gold ring, with its rampant griffon crushing a ravening wolf under its clawed foot, hung loose about the old man’s finger, as though the slightest motion might set it sliding from its perch to roll across the bare stone floor. Wilhelm himself was an embodiment of age and infirmity, shoulders stooped beneath the weight of years, face gaunt and lean, eyes withdrawn into their pits, dull and bleary with cataracts. His hair was silver-grey, hanging down about his shoulders in an unkempt nest. It was not time alone that had placed its stamp upon Wilhelm Klausner, but the ultimate effects of a hard life filled with trouble and discord.

The old man lifted his head, his dull eyes considering the altar and its icon. Prayers slipped from Wilhelm’s mouth as he repeated over and again a simple catechism he had learned long ago, a plea for protection from the denizens of the Old Night.

Wilhelm’s head snapped around from his devotions as he heard the heavy oak door connecting the chapel to his own chambers slowly open.

A man passed through the portal. He was broad of shoulder with a face that was full and plump. His rounded head was all but devoid of hair, only a light fuzz clinging to the back and edges of his skull. His face was sharp despite its fullness, the nose stabbing downward like a dagger. There was a gleam to his soft brown eyes that somehow added to the overall air of cunning that seemed to cling about him like a mantle. He strode forward, his staff clacking against the door as he stepped past it, the large brass buckles upon his boots gleaming as they reflected the feeble light of the candles.

‘Forgive the intrusion, my lord,’ the steward addressed Wilhelm as the patriarch began to rise. ‘I wanted to inform you that I have received word from the village.’ The steward paused for a moment, setting the end of his staff against the floor and resting his weight against it. ‘It would seem the “the beast” has struck again. Young Bruno Fleischer, body mangled almost beyond identity.’ The steward paused again, favouring his master with a look of sympathy. ‘I believe that you knew him.’

Wilhelm Klausner gained his feet with a sigh. ‘Yes,’ he said, the characteristic lisp extending the word. ‘I knew him and his father. Very old friends of the family.’ The old man cast his gaze to the floor, wringing his hands in despair. ‘What have I done that I should invite such horror upon my people?’ He looked once more at his steward, his eyes filled with pleading. ‘Tell me, Ivar, am I so steeped in wickedness that Sigmar should forsake me? And if I am, why then punish my people and not myself, if the guilt for these things be mine?’

‘You have broken with tradition, perhaps that is why this terror stalks the district,’ the servant informed his master. ‘You should have allowed your sons–’

‘No!’ the old patriarch snapped, strength suddenly infusing his voice. ‘I’ll not let my sons walk the same path as me. I love them too well to wish such a curse upon them!’

‘A strange way to speak of serving the order of Sigmar’s Knights of the Temple,’ Ivar commented in a quiet tone. ‘One might almost describe it as heretical,’ he warned.

‘For ten years I played the role demanded of me by tradition. For ten years I travelled this great Empire, searching out the blackest of horrors, things which haunt my mind even now.’ Wilhelm Klausner turned to face the altar again. ‘I did that out of love for Lord Sigmar. He knows the measure of my devotion. But I’ll not condemn my sons to ruin themselves as I have been ruined!’

‘To fend off the darkness, there is always a price which must be paid,’ cautioned Ivar. ‘No good has ever been achieved without the sacrifices of good men.’

‘Then let some other suffer that sacrifice!’ Wilhelm declared, rounding on his servant once more. ‘The Klausners have paid more than their share. I have already lost so much, I’ll not lose my sons as well.’ The patriarch held his hand before his face, turning the wrinkled, withered thing before his eyes. ‘Look at me, Ivar. Anyone would think me your senior. None would believe that you served my father before me. See how the horror I have witnessed has changed me, robbed me of my youth. Well, that is a sacrifice that I have made, and Sigmar is welcome to it. But I’ll not send my sons to do the same!’

‘That is the tradition of the Klausners,’ Ivar reminded his master. ‘Back to the time of Helmuth, your family has ever sent its sons to serve among Sigmar’s witch finders. It is a long and noble legacy.’

Wilhelm Klausner strode toward the altar, lifting up the candlestick. ‘I am not concerned with the nobility of this house, or its legacy,’ he told his servant. ‘My only concern is for the safety of this family.’

The old man strode past Ivar, through the open doorway that connected the tiny chapel to his own bedchamber.

The steward dutifully followed after his master.

‘That also is my concern,’ observed Ivar. His master’s chamber was opulently furnished, dominated by a gargantuan four-posted bed, its surface piled with pillows and heavy blankets of wool and ermine. A glass-faced curio cabinet loomed against one wall, nestled between a massive wardrobe of stained oak and the yawning face of a hearth. In the far corner, a writing table was set, beside it stood a large bookcase, its overburdened shelves sagging under the weight of dozens of leather-bound tomes. Ivar watched with a slight air of superiority as Wilhelm Klausner let his heavy cloak slip to the floor, the scrawny frame of the old man crawled into his waiting bed. When Wilhelm was fully situated, his servant stepped forward to remove the garment from the floor, draping it loosely over his arm.

‘You have served my family well,’ the withered man told Ivar. ‘And I have always valued your council.’

‘Then listen to my words again, my lord,’ Ivar said, punctuating them with a stab of his gloved finger. ‘There are some who will take your decision in this matter none too lightly. They will see this breaking with tradition as an ill omen, a sign that perhaps those black horrors you speak of may have warped your mind, caused a rot within your soul. Are you so certain that you are so free of enemies that you can allow such thoughts to linger within the temple district in Altdorf?’

‘Let my enemies do their worst,’ sneered the old man, puffing himself upright amidst his bedding. ‘Their yapping will avail them nothing! I still have some influence in Altdorf. My name is not unknown to old Volkmar, or my reputation.’

‘I think that is a dangerous assumption to make.’ Ivar’s voice drifted back into its cautious tone. ‘I served your father long before he returned to these lands, and I know how suspicious witch hunters are, seeing a heretic behind every door and an abomination of Chaos in every shadow. Trust not in the ties of old friendships and loyalties when such spectres are invoked.’

‘And you would have me destroy my sons to allay the doubts of such verminous fear-mongers?’ Wilhelm spat. He shook his head, his face twisted into a distasteful scowl.

‘If these murders continue, you will have to do something,’ confessed the steward. ‘Things cannot go on like this. When it was six or even seven, perhaps we might have been able to handle the matter more quietly. But now…’ Ivar shook his head. ‘No, such a thing will have been noticed. And the eyes that are drawn to the district of Klausberg will not be those of your friends, my lord. Your enemies will seize upon these occurrences like starving wolves falling upon a scrap of mutton.’

Wilhelm Klausner looked away from his steward, gazing instead out of the window. He considered the cold darkness that clutched and pawed at the glass, the sombre testament of night’s black dominion across his lands. What things might even now be crawling under that shroud? What atrocities might they even now be plotting to inflict upon his domain?

‘Ivar,’ the patriarch’s voice sank to a lower, tremulous tone. ‘You must not let it come to that. All that I have done has been to draw my enemies away from his place, to protect my family and my people from the unholy things that would do them harm. We cannot fail in this or all has been for nothing!’

The steward strode towards the heavy outer door of the patriarch’s chamber. ‘Your enemies are already come to Klausberg,’ Ivar told his master.

Click here to buy Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter.

A Black Library Publication

A Choice of Hatreds first published in Lords of Valour, in 2001.
Meat Wagon first published in Swords of the Empire, in 2004.
Witch Work first published in Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter, in 2008.
Witch Hunter first published in 2006.
Witch Finder first published in 2007.
Witch Killer first published in 2008.
This eBook edition published in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Marta Dettlaff.
Map by Nuala Kinrade.

Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-951-5

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