Tales of the Old World (100 page)

“I cannot bear the thought of the final ending of my life,” the necromancer
admitted, his squinting eyes streaming with tears of fear and loathing. “I had
to find some way to escape. I did not mean harm. That I will one day not be
anymore fills me with terror that I cannot face.”

“But death is not an ending,” Tybalt growled, stepping towards the wizard,
through the thick weeds once more. “As the duke has shown me, death is merely a
gateway to another place. If we live well, we shall be rewarded: the Lady will
take care of us, and we shall be beside her for the rest of time.”

“How do you know of such things?” the sorcerer demanded, his face filled with
anguish.

“I do not know such things. I believe in them,” Tybalt answered, standing
over the cowering necromancer. “I have faith that what I have been taught is
true. I need no evidence of the land beyond death, for it is faith in its
existence that will take me there.”

“And what of those who have no faith?” the necromancer asked fearfully.

“I do not know,” the knight replied, drawing his sword back. “Perhaps we all
get what we believe in. Perhaps you will just simply cease, or perhaps your soul
will be trapped in a limbo between realms. Or maybe there is a hell, and devils
will rend your soul for all eternity.” Tybalt stepped to one side of the
necromancer and braced his legs in the soft ground.

“You will know, sooner than I!” he cried, his sword arm bringing his blade
swiftly across the necromancer’s neck, sending the head tumbling into the
overgrown grass.

As Tybalt rode back along the single road of Moreux, a crowd of peasants
began to gather around him. He must have been a fearsome sight, his armour
scratched and bloody, his face a grim mask. Reaching the open space that served
as town square, he halted his steed.

“Foul things have come to this land because we have allowed them to
trespass,” he called to the assembled throng. “We have forgotten that which
should be remembered. Hear this, and heed it well. As a knight of Bretonnia, I
command you all to send men to the graveyard along the pass, to clear away the
min of centuries. It shall be your duty to see that it is maintained with
dignity and pride. I lay this honour upon you. Do not fail in this task, for I
shall return, and I shall demand to know who is responsible if my commands fall
on deaf ears!”

As the peasants began to drift away, Tybalt turned to look back at the hill
at the top of the pass. The sun was just now reaching over its crest, its golden
light spilling down the slope and lending it a beauty it had not had in the dark
mists of the night before. He wondered for a moment if the duke was still there
looking down on him.

“Farewell, milord,” the knight said to himself. “You have earned your rest.”

On the outskirts of the small town of Kleinsdorf, a group of raucous men
gathered in a fallow field. Before them stood an inverted anvil upon which a
burly man garbed in a heavy blacksmith’s apron set a second anvil. The man’s
bearded face split into a booming laugh as one of his comrades lit a hemp fuse
that slithered between the anvils to reach a small charge of gunpowder. A hushed
silence fell upon the men as the smouldering flame slowly burned its way to the
explosive. Suddenly a tremendous boom echoed across the barren fields and the
uppermost anvil was thrown into the sky to crash into the ground several yards
away. A great cheer erupted from the group and the blacksmith set off at a
lumbering jog to retrieve the heavy iron projectile, even as one of his friends
prepared another charge.

“It looks like we have chanced into a bit of a celebration, eh, Mathias?”
commented a stout, bearded rider on the road overlooking the anvil-firing party.

The man wore a battered and ill-mended pair of leather breeches; an equally
battered jerkin of studded leather struggled to contain the man’s slight paunch.
Greasy, swine-like eyes peered from either side of a splayed nose while an
unkempt beard clothed his forward-jutting jaw. From a scabbard at his side a
broadsword swayed with each step of his horse.

“We come here seeking rest, friend Streng, not to indulge your penchant for
debauchery,” replied the second rider. A tall, grim figure, the second man was
his companion’s senior by at least a decade. Where Streng’s attire was shabby
and worn, this man’s was opulent. Immaculate shiny leather boots rose to the
man’s knees and his back was enveloped by a heavy black cape lined with the
finest ermine. Fine calfskin gauntlets garbed slender-fingered hands while a
tunic of red satin embroidered with gold clothed his arms and chest. The wide
rounded brim of his leather hat cast a shadow upon the rider’s features. Hanging
from a dragonskin belt with an enormous silver buckle were a pair of holstered
pistols and a slender-bladed longsword.

“You are the one who has taken so many fine vows to Sigmar,” Streng said with
a voice that was not quite a sneer. “I recall taking no such vows.”

Mathias turned to look at his companion and his face emerged from the shadow
cast by the brim of his hat. The older man’s visage was gaunt, dominated by a
narrow, dagger-like nose and the thin moustache that rested between it and the
man’s slender lips. A grey arrow of beard stabbed out from the man’s chin. His
eyes were of similar flinty hue but burnt with a strange intensity, a
determination and zeal that were at odds with the glacial hue.

“You make no vows to Sigmar, yet you take the Temple’s gold easily enough,”
Mathias locked eyes with his comrade. Some of the glib disrespect in Streng’s
manner dissipated as he met that gaze.

“I’ve not seen many monks with so fine a habit as yours,” Streng said,
turning his eyes from his companion.

“It is sometimes wise to remind people that Sigmar rewards service in this
life as well as the hereafter.” Mathias looked away from his henchman and stared
at the town before them.

A small settlement of some thousand persons, the simple wooden structures
were close together, the streets narrow and crooked. Everywhere there was
laughter and singing, music from mandolin and fife. A celebratory throng choked
the streets, dancing with recklessness born more of joy than drink, at least in
this early hour of the festival. Yet, none were so reckless as not to make way
for Mathias as he manoeuvred his steed into the narrow streets, nor to make the
sign of Sigmar’s Hammer with the witch hunter’s passing.

“I shall take room at the inn. You find a stable for the horses,” Mathias
said as he and Streng rode through the crowd.

“And then?” asked Streng, a lustful gleam in his eyes and a lecherous grin
splitting his face.

“I care not what manner of sin you find fit to soil your soul with,” snarled
the witch hunter, “Just see that you are in condition to ride at cock’s crow.”

As they talked, the pair did not observe the stealthy figure who watched
their exchange from behind a hay-laden wagon. They did not see the same figure
emerge from its hiding place with their passing, nor the venomous glare it sent
after them.

Gustav sipped at the small glass of Tilean wine, listening to the sounds of
merriment beyond the walls of his inn. A greedy glint came to the innkeeper’s
eyes as he thought of the vacant rooms above his head and the drunken men who
would fill them before the night was through. The Festival of Wilhelmstag
brought many travellers to Kleinsdorf, travellers who would find themselves too
drunk or too fatigued to quit the town once the festivities reached their end.
Few would be lucid enough to haggle over the “competitive” fee Gustav charged
his annual Wilhelmstag guests.

Gustav again sipped at his wine, silently toasting Wilhelm Hoess and the
minotaur lord which had been kind enough to let itself and its horde of Chaos
spawn be slaughtered in the streets of Kleinsdorf two centuries past. Even now,
the innkeeper could see the gilded skull of the monster atop a pole in the
centre of the square outside, torchlight from the celebratory throng below it
dancing across the golden surface. Gustav hoped that the minotaur was enjoying
the view, for tomorrow the skull would return to a chest in the town hall, there
to reside until next Wilhelmstag.

The opening of the inn’s front door roused the innkeeper from his thoughts.
Gustav smiled.

The first sheep comes to be fleeced, he thought as he scuttled away from the
window. But the smile died when Gustav’s eyes observed the countenance of his
new guest. The high black hat, flowing cape and expensive weapons combined with
the stern visage of the man’s face told Gustav what this man was even before he
saw the burning gleam in those cold grey eyes.

“I am sorry, my lord, but I am afraid that I have no rooms that are free.”
Gustav winced as the witch hunter’s eyes stared into his own. “The… the
festival. It brings many guests. If you had only come on another night…” the
innkeeper stammered.

“Your common room is also filled?” the witch hunter interrupted.

“Why, no,” Gustav said, a nervous tic causing his left eye to twitch
uncontrollably.

“Then you may move one of your guests to the common room,” the witch hunter
declared. Gustav nodded his agreement even as he inwardly cursed the man. The
common room was a long hall at the side of the inn lined with pallets of straw.
Even drunkards would be unwilling to pay much for such lodgings.

“You may show me my room,” the witch hunter said, his firm hand grasping
Gustav’s shoulder and pushing the innkeeper ahead of himself. “I trust that you
have something appropriate for a devoted servant of Sigmar?”

“Yes, my lord,” Gustav said, altering his course away from the closetlike
chamber he had thought to give the witch hunter. He led the way up a flight of
stairs to one of the larger rooms. The witch hunter peered into the chamber
while the innkeeper held the door open.

“No, I think not,” the witch hunter declared. The bearded face moved closer
toward Gustav’s own and one of the gloved fingers touched the twitching muscle
beside the innkeeper’s eye.

“Interesting,” Mathias said, not quite under his breath. The innkeeper’s eyes
grew wide with fright, seeming to see the word “mutation” forming in the witch
hunter’s mind.

“A nervous twitch, nothing more,” Gustav muttered, knowing that even so
slight a physical defect had put men to the stake in many backwater towns. “I
have a much nicer room, if you would follow me.” Gustav turned, leading the
witch hunter to a second flight of stairs.

“Yes, this will do,” Mathias stated when Gustav led him into a large and
well-furnished room at the very top of the inn. Gustav smiled and nodded his
head nervously.

“It is my honour to serve a noble Templar of Sigmar,” the innkeeper said as
he walked to the large oak wardrobe that dominated one corner of the room.
Gustav opened the wardrobe and removed his own nightshirt and cap from it.

“I will dine here,” Mathias declared, settling into a large chair and
removing his weapon-laden belt. “A goose and some wine, I think.” The witch
hunter stroked his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.

“I will see to it,” the innkeeper said, knowing better than to challenge his
most-unwanted guest. Gustav paused a few steps away from the witch hunter.
Mathias reached into a pocket in the lining of his tunic and tossed a few coins
into the man’s hands. Gustav stared stupidly at them for several seconds.

“I did not come for the festival,” explained Mathias, “so I should not have
to pay festival prices.” The witch hunter suddenly cocked his head and stared
intently at Gustav’s twitching eye.

“I shall see about your supper,” Gustav whimpered as he hurried from the
room.

The streets of Kleinsdorf were alive with rejoicing. Everywhere there was
dancing and singing. But all the laughter and joy in the world could not touch
the figure that writhed its way through the crowd. The dark, shabby cloak of the
man, meant to keep him inconspicuous, was at odds with the bright fabrics and
flowers of the revellers and made him stand out all the more. Dozens of times
Reinhardt von Lichtberg had been forced to ward away garishly clad townspeople
who thought to exorcise this wraith of melancholy in their midst with dance and
drink. Reinhardt spat into the dust. A black-hearted murderer had descended upon
this place and all these idiots could do was dance and laugh. Well, if things
turned out as Reinhardt planned, he too would have cause to dance and laugh.
Before they stretched his neck from a gallows.

Hands clasped Reinhardt’s shoulders and spun the young man around. So lost in
thoughts of revenge was he that he did not even begin to react before warm,
moist lips closed about his own. The woman detached herself and stared up into
the young man’s face.

“I don’t believe that I know you,” Reinhardt said as his eyes considered the
golden-haired, well-built woman smiling impishly at him and the taste of ale
that covered his lips.

“You could,” the woman smiled. “The Festival of Wilhelmstag is a time for
finding new people.”

Reinhardt shook his head. “I am looking for no one new.” Reinhardt found
himself thinking again of Mina and how she had died. And how her murderer would
die.

“You have not seen a witch hunter, by any chance?” Reinhardt asked. The
woman’s smile turned into a full-lipped pout.

“I’ve met his surrogate,” the girl swore. “Over at the beer hall, drinking
like an orc and carrying on like a Tilean sailor. Mind you, no decent woman had
better get near him.” The impish smile returned and the woman pulled
scandalously at the torn fringe of her bodice. “See what the brute did to me.”

Reinhardt grabbed the woman’s arms in a vice-like grip.

“Did he say where Mathias Thulmann, the witch hunter, is?” Reinhardt snarled.
The coyness left the woman’s face as the drunken haze was replaced by something
approaching fear.