Hedge Maze
"Life is like a hedge maze: we are subjected to constant twists and turns, paths we do not fully understand and yet must follow to reach our destination. Some of these corridors intersect in ways that surprise us, and so we are astonished when we find the connections that lie below the surface of our world."
-Elrich Hoffel, Professor of Philosophy at the University of Altdorf
It was midday on the docks of Schwartzberg, a small port town on the eastern bank of the River Reik. It offered little and seemed no different than most Empire towns of the region: small clusters of houses, a chapel, and a watchtower that had been unoccupied since the Storm of Chaos several years before. Though normally such a small and provincial settlement would be overlooked, Schwartzberg had recently become something of a legend, or perhaps more accurately, a ghost story.
"Another damnable floater," Ulrich Bern spat, his saliva striking the edge of his trolling pole and running off the warping oak before plonking into the stagnant harbor. The dockman growled and pulled the body closer to the shore, cringing as he saw a water rat gnawing on the corpse's left ear. In his thirty years of work, Ulrich had rarely, if ever, experienced any oddities. That all changed on Geheimnisnacht of this year, 2252 after the Death of Sigmar Most Holy.
Ulrich dropped his pole on the dock momentarily and removed his wide-brimmed cotton hat to wipe the sweat from his wrinkled brow and run his fingers through his greasy, gray-blond hair. Ulrich turned to face his partner, Hanz, the former's empty right eye socket boring into the latter's young visage.
"That's the fifth one this week. What do you make of all this?" Ulrich asked, replacing his hat and picking up his pole to bring the body onto dry land.
"There must be a plague going around, none of the bodies have been showing any markings," Hanz replied, closing his ice-blue eyes and turning his head towards the body. He shuddered briefly and turned away, his short black hair rustling as he did so.
"So you've been inspectin' 'em closely then?" Ulrich inquired as he gripped the body's damp shirt and dragged it towards a pile of refuse.
"N-no..." Hanz stammered, "they just never seem to be bleeding or show any signs of wounds."
"When did you become our expert physician?" Ulrich joked. "Or have you been talking with Father Nurgle?"
"Don't say such things!" Hanz snapped, rushing over to his superior and cupping a hand over his mouth. "The last thing we need is you as a target if the Witch Hunters show up and start inquiring about the corpses."
"You seem awfully knowledgeable for one who has not yet seen twenty summers," Ulrich replied, casually removing Hanz's hand from his mouth. "When I was your age I never told my elders what to talk about and what not to."
"I just don't want the body of someone I know ending up on the pile..." Hanz muttered, turning away and gripping his pole against his chest. He stared down at the murky water and sighed, watching as the morning mists began to dissipate over the water. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Ulrich.
"Thanks, Hanz, I wasn't tryin' to make you feel bad, it was just a few jokes from an old timer."
Hanz turned and regarded his friend's face. "You aren't that old, Ulrich."
"I told you I served under the Nuln 17th Militia didn't I? They were disbanded over two decades ago!"
"Ha, well you don't look a day over thirty."
"Thanks for the compliment, but don't think flattery will get you out of docking duty this afternoon," Ulrich answered, rustling Hanz's hair. "Now watch the docks, I'm going to carry this filth away and get Father Johann to bless the corpse and give it a proper burial."
"Sure, good luck," Hanz waved Ulrich away and turned back to the water before him. He shuddered as he thought about the mass of corpses that had been arriving in their town over the course of the past few months. He could barely believe what was happening; who were these people and why were their bodies arriving here? Initially, he had believed they were residents of the town, but the corpses were always unidentifiable. The mayor had sent a messenger to Altdorf to inquire about the dead, bringing drawings of the deceased with him, but he returned several weeks later with word that these people were unknown and most likely peasants from one of the many neighboring farming villages. The messenger, a man by the name of Friedrich, scoured other towns but no one seemed to know who these people were. Eventually, he returned, shame clouding his once bright face.
It was not long before Friedrich was once again dispatched to request aid from the Temple of Sigmar to investigate this matter. Though the Temple recognized the gravity of the situation, they could offer little aid, merely several holy signets as gifts to ward off evil. Instead, Friedrich journeyed to the Temple of Morr where he found an ally in the personage of Father Johann.
As a devotee of Morr, Father Johann was knowledgeable in the ways of the dead. It was he who had personally inspected each corpse that had arrived and blessed it before burying it in the cemetery behind the town's chapel. Father Dietrich, the resident Priest of Sigmar, was often wary of Johann, turning away from the man whenever he approached and refusing to let his fellow priest enter the chapel for extended periods of time. Hanz, like most citizens of the Empire, owed the majority of his allegiance to Sigmar, yet even he recognized the other gods. He even had prayed to Ranald now and then, though usually only before a dice game with Ulrich. Obviously, the Trickster God wished for more support, and so the dice usually came up poorly for the young dockman.
Hanz was unsure what to make of the whole situation. He occasionally checked the bodies to see if he could uncover how they had died, yet all of them were the same: they were wet and dead, nothing else. There were never any marks, no wounds from weapons, no signs of pustules or boils. Hanz wondered if this was the work of magic; he had heard many stories of magisters with the ability to kill a man merely by looking at him, destroying their foe's mind and ending his life. He gulped he ran that thought through his mind; was such a mage nearby? If so, Hanz hoped never to meet him.
"What are you day-dreaming about?" The bell-like voice caught Hanz off guard and he jumped slightly, almost dropping his pole in the process. He spun on the heels of his simple boots to view the speaker. It was Lila, Father Dietrich's daughter, a Sister of Sigmar in training. Her robe was always starched and pure white, never seeming to absorb any of the grime that Hanz and his like were saturated in. She was beautiful to behold, her face without mark or flaw, her brown hair silky and long, her skin pale yet inviting. Hanz cursed that she was condemned to a life in the abbey; he never could pursue such a woman, a future Bride of Sigmar.
"Nothing," Hanz spoke urgently.
"I saw Ulrich carrying another body," Lila murmured. "It must be rather traumatizing for you. I could never be brave enough to deal with the dead."
"Aren't the Disciples of Sigmar supposed to help heal the sick?" Hanz asked.
"Sometimes, but many are referred to the Cult of Shallaya. Also, the infected are one thing, the dead are another entirely." Lila moved towards the dock as she spoke, her dress seeming to allow her to glide over the grass and mud.
"I apologize," Hanz said hastily, "I did not mean to offend you."
Lila shook her head. "No, it is a common mistake. The various religious orders in the Empire are quite complex, I myself know little about the worship of Ulric."
Hanz laughed. "It's funny, Ulrich is constantly cursing that God. His parents were from Middenland, but he ran away to Nuln at a young age. Seems he caught onto the Heldenhammer then."
Lila gulped before speaking. "May I ask an honest question?" Her eyelashes batted wildly as she sat on the dock, he legs dangling over the pier. Hanz laid his pole down and did the same.
"Go ahead."
"How did Ulrich lose his eye?"
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"Hurry up, damn Middenlanders! Do your kind have bones of lead?" The sergeant barked at the line of Free Company Militia. They were a rag-tag bunch, some were veterans, their clothes a mix of old army uniforms and good quality clothing bought with war pensions; among them were the red and white of Altdorf, the purple of Averland, the green and yellow of Ostland, and, of course, the blue and white of Middenland. Many wore traveling clothes with merely a single ribbon around an arm just below the shoulder or a feather in their hat to denote their nation or unit of origin. Scars lined faces and tattoos the arms of most of these warriors, these markings telling tales of battles and adventures long past.
Among the crowd were some youths, eager whippersnappers joining the cavalcade in an attempt to escape past life, avoid jail-time for crimes, or merely find excitement. In the midst of this group stood a lad by the name of Ulrich Klaushoffen, a rapscallion from the Middenland who had just recently joined the unit. He gripped his mace and dagger excitedly as he rushed ahead of his peers and countrymen to stand near the sergeant.
Sergeant Glau was the only man among the 17th Nuln Militia with a proper uniform. He wore black and yellow clothes beneath his iron breastplate and greaves. The helmet atop his head bore a single gold feather which flapped lazily in the breeze. He growled beneath his grizzly red beard, his rotting teeth showing beneath the mass of hair. Glau had served his nation well for nigh fifteen years and saw this assignment as a nurse-maid's duties rather than a promotion. He was from a noble family that had fallen from grace, yet still he felt he was above filth such as this. Every battle he prayed his men would die, or better yet flee, so he could be re-assigned to the 22nd Halberdiers, a position he had happily served for the better part of a decade.
Glau scowled as he watched Ulrich scamper beside him. The old soldier shook his head; the lad didn't know what he had gotten himself into. Glau had fought against some of the most hideous of foes: he could recall the 19th of Plough-Tide 2215, the day men with the heads of beasts nearly took his head; Glau had instead laid low three of the hideous monstrosities, his eyes filling with righteous indignation as he put their corpses to the torch. Three years later Glau faced the walking dead, the ghastly corpses taking the life of his best friend, Heinrich; he watched in agony as this close ally was impaled by a skeleton's scimitar. A swift strike from Glau's polearm ended the creature's mockery of a life, but it was too late for Heinrich.
Today, however, it was not the Forces of Darkness that plagued the men of the Empire. It was the Elves. Glau had never understood the pale, skinny creatures that sometimes marched beside men and other times against them. These beings always seemed to have their own overarching agenda and treated men as little more than undeveloped cretins only worthy of a position as living shields. Glau's old regiment had fought beside Elves before and he had never enjoyed it. Though the "highborn" as they called themselves exhibited amazing martial prowess and an unbelievable skill with the magical arts, Glau always detected their disdain for humanity in the way they carried themselves. During the campaign, not once would the blond warriors sit beside the humans at the meals and always saw fit to pitch their tents at least a hundred yards away from the human encampment.
Glau snarled as he remembered the haughty voice of the only Elf who had even been gracious enough to provide his name: Imhol Goldenaxe. This Elf had often laughed at the misery of the humans, calling their food filth and their clothing rags. Imhol, from what Glau could tell, was one of the lower-classes of Elf; the Elven general was a noble, or so Glau guessed from his even more elaborate robes and glimmering golden armor. If this Elf viewed humans like a plague, he viewed Imhol's kind like rats. Thus, Glau surmised that Imhol wished to find anyone lower than himself and continually repeat their faults. Even now the sergeant could remember the Elven archer remarking about how the ugliest Elven maid was more beautiful than the most comely human lass. Occasionally, Glau had considered striking Imhol, but his duty as a soldier allowed him to realize the necessity of allies, especially ones as skilled as the High Elves.
That was another thing that bothered Glau: the differentiation between Elves. To him, all Elves were more or less the same. They were tall, haughty, and had long hair. They despised the "lesser races." They shunned technology. They were adept at the magic arts. From what Glau could tell, each Elf was an individual as one blade of grass from another. At least humans were unique.
Today their foe was apparently a Wood Elf scouting party. Glau's regiment, along with a detachment of archers and a small unit of spearmen led by Captain Pieter, had been sent to deal with the Elves who had, apparently, been harassing merchant caravans passing from Nuln to Altdorf. Glau was unsure why the Elves saw fit to change their allegiances so quickly; he surmised that the Elves despised humans, but they despised their other foes much more and saw the need to kill two birds with one stone: fight the great evil alongside the humans and surely some of such a "lesser race" would perish in the ensuing conflict: a win-win situation for the Elves.
"Sir, a report," the whispering voice entered Glau's acute ears. He turned to see several of the archers who had been dispatched as scouts had returned to report to the captain. The rest of the words were lost on the air, but Glau judged from the Captain's expression that good news was on the way.
"Sergeant Glau, a small encampment of about a score of the enemy is up ahead," Captain Pieter stated, walking over to his subordinate so as to not risk his voice carrying to the foe. "Your unit will continue straight through the forest while my unit takes the right flank. The archers will circle around from behind their camp and give you all covering fire. Do not attack until after the first volley flies."
"Yes, sir!" Glau declared, saluting smartly and turning towards his rag-tag entourage. "You heard the captain, let's move out!" Ulrich's eyes lit up as he continued to tag along just behind the sergeant, admiring the soldier's proper uniform. Some day, the boy swore, he would officially join the ranks of the Empire's army. He had only joined the Free Companies so as to make some much needed money, but soon he would be able to afford a room at an inn, and from there perhaps he could begin training in the Spearmen Corps.
The unit pressed forward through the tree and brush cover, some of the men making swipes with their weapons at the air or bushes to ready themselves for combat and remove the jitters they felt. Much superstition existed in the Empire, and no race was more mysterious than the Elves. Some men brought out charms to Sigmar and hung them around their necks, while others kissed special rings or gemstones they wore. Still others were seen placing one fist atop the other across their chest, known as the Sign of the Hammer, another method of offering homage to their patron God. Ulrich had just recently found faith in Sigmar after forsaking love in his parents' god, Ulric. He found it ironic that he bore the name of a deity he now rejected, but he thought no more of it as he copied the men beside him, making the Sign of the Hammer and whispering a brief prayer.
Sergeant Glau turned around to face his unit, put a finger to his lips, and then pointed to his feet, indicating a quieter way for the men to walk as he pressed his toe to the earth before the heel. The Elves were rarely surprised, and so for such an ambush to work the utmost care had to be taken.
Glau then began his own pre-battle ritual, licking his index and middle finger before crossing one over the other in a salute to Ranald, God of Luck. He then ran the saliva along the edge of his halberd blade and offered a few prayers to his chosen lord. Few men in the Empire, save thieves and gamblers, placed Ranald at the top of their pantheon, but the Master of Chance had saved Glau's life more than once and so he owed the Trickster God his allegiance.
The men continued forward, with each minute seeming like an eternity as they neared the foes ahead. Some of the men looked left and right rapidly, fearing their own ambush would be surprised, while others merely focused forward, either banishing their fear or not realizing the danger of the enemy they faced.
Ulrich smiled, his excitement rising as they neared their foes. This would be his first real battle, a chance to prove himself in the field. He had participated in the break-up of a riot the week before, but then he had little more to do than corral some rowdy firebrands into an alleyway where they could be apprehended and sent to the dungeons of Nuln. He never even had to strike his foes; brandishing his weapons menacingly had been enough to inspire fear in the protesters.
Suddenly, a loud cracking sound followed by a groan broke the silence in the once calm forest. Glau, Ulrich, and the other assembled men turned towards the source of the sound. A pit had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and had swallowed up three of the company's men. Glau approached the trap and saw that two of the unlucky souls had already been impaled by the stakes lying at the bottom, while the third had managed to land on top of their bodies and was very much alive, albeit with some bruises from the fall.
Glau shook his head. He should have expected the Elves would deploy traps. That, however, was not the issue at hand. The sergeant approached the hole and extended his hand to the living man, pulling him back to the surface.
"My thanks, Sergeant," the man, a middle-aged chap with a red beard and fiery hair to match, stated. He clasped his hands and looked skyward. "Blessed be Sigmar who hath saved me from the jaws of death!" The man stood stock still for what seemed like an eternity before falling forward and slamming into the leaf cover, a green-fletched arrow protruding from the base of his skull.
"Damn it all! Form up ranks men, we're being ambushed!" Glau called out, swinging his halberd over his head to give the troops a rallying point. "Blasted Elves, it was foolish to think we could ambush them. They had this planned from the start I'll wager."
The men of the Free Company rushed toward Glau, more of them falling every second to the hail of arrows that seemed to emanated from everywhere at once. The sergeant narrowly dodged a shaft that whizzed by his right arm as more men rushed towards him.
"Company, follow my march, we are going to make for the area of tree cover ahead and flush out any Elves there! For Nuln!"
"For Nuln!" The cry was taken up by the remaining men, save one, young Ulrich. The Middenlander quivered with fear as he positioned himself in the middle of the unit, an area he felt was safest. How could the Elves have surprised them? Had they not planned this attack well? Were the rumors true that Elves could see the future? Was this attack doomed from the start?
Ulrich was caught in the rush of bodies as the men charged headlong into the tree cover. At least a dozen more fell before they had left the clearing, yet the others seemed blind to the deaths of their friends, or at least were ignoring them in the rush of battle.
As they broke through the tree line, Glau gave the order to halt and turned left and right searching for the archers. "The bastards must've withdrawn," the military man muttered, his eyes shifting from side to side. "Stay on guard, men, they're probably planning something."
Silence descended on the Free Company as they scoured the clearing, searching around trees and behind logs in hopes of finding their foes. One man recovered a discarded green cloak while another found tufts of golden hair caught on a branch, but there were no other signs of the ghostly attackers.
A loud chorus of whoops broke the silence, the voices seeming to emanate from and echo off the trees themselves. The men whirled around wildly and gripped their weapons ever tighter as they prepared for another assault. Ulrich turned just in time to see Herr Klaus, a well-respected veteran, receive a sword through his gut from behind. The aged warrior craned his neck to view the foe behind him, but the sword was rapidly wrenched from his mid-section and he crumpled to the ground. Suddenly, bodies seemed to pour from every direction: they appeared to be Elves with slender, yet muscular, frames, hair dyed multiple wild hues, and strange runes tattooed all across their bodies. In each hand these warriors clutched a sword or short spear, waving these weapons excitedly as they careened through the branches, chopping the men apart as they went.
Glau gripped his halberd with all his might and brought it around in a mighty sweep, catching one of the dancing Elves off guard and cleaving him in two. The sergeant turned to see another foe flipping towards him; realizing his heavy weapon would only lead to a faster death, Glau threw down his trusted halberd and drew his short sword. He parried the first blow, mustering all his strength as the weight of two swords bore down on his one. Glau then smirked and pushed against the blades, causing the Elf to withdraw slightly; the Elves may be strong, but the extra weight humans carried gave them an edge in tests of might.
The sergeant took a moment to take in his opponent. The Elf appeared young, only the equivalent of a sixteen-year old human, though Glau knew he must be far older. His hair was spiky and dyed bright blue with a swirl of yellow running beneath the top. He wore a short green skirt with odd symbols embroidered in blue script on the edges, though his chest was bare, showing an assembly of well-toned muscles and slightly bronzed flesh. Unlike most of the other Elven warriors, this one bore no tattoos or markings on his exposed skin. Glau realized this most likely marked the Elf as a younger and less experienced warrior; scanning the fate of his men, he realized a foe with more martial training would have felled him long ago.
"Come on then!" Glau barked at the Elf, grasping his sword with both hands. He knew that this battle would be decided by one strike. Glau was first to charge, aiming his sword point at the Elf's chest and thrusting forward. The graceful fighter lazily sidestepped and brought both blades around, cleaving off Glau's arms. The sergeant turned, gritting his teeth in an attempt to ignore the horrendous pain. Blood gushed from his wounds, soaking the ground below his feet. He stood, almost in disbelief, as the blades of the Elf flew in different directions: one claimed his head, the other separated his torso from his legs.
Ulrich shuddered as he watched Glau fall. If the sergeant, the most skilled soldier Ulrich knew, was no match for these foes, what chance did he stand? The boy became frantic and saw only one possible action: flight. Many other soldiers seemed to feel similarly, rushing away from the combat alongside or ahead of Ulrich. Some of the Free Company still fought vainly; for every one of the Elves that fell, five times as many men were slain. The once massive unit had degenerated to less than a quarter of its original size, and by now most of the best troops had been slain or incapacitated.
The group that fled thanked Sigmar as they ran, blessing their comrades for distracting the Elves. It seemed they would survive. If they could make it to Captain Pieter's unit they may stand some chance at turning back the Elves and avenging their fellows. As they re-entered the clearing, however, their hopes were dashed. Standing before them was a line of archers cloaked in green trappings and armed with longbows. The tallest among them, who Ulrich assumed was the commander, pointed towards the men and uttered a command in a language that sounded like water flowing over a silk sheet. Seconds later, the lines were once again pierced by arrows.
Ulrich shuddered as he saw the shafts near him and felt as if time was beginning to slow. His first real battle had shown him to be a coward; he had not once even tried to fight back, merely running or standing away from the melee. Yet it did not matter; his small efforts would have made little difference. The Elves must have used some sort of wicked magic to mislead the humans, tricking them into this ambush of an ambush. There was no way a man of Captain Pieter's caliber would ever be outsmarted so easily...was there? Ulrich could not believe how well they had been tricked: those dancing Elves had served to give the archers time to surround the Free Company's position; the whole thing had played out like a game of chess.
A single arrow seemed to be all that stood before Ulrich, nearing his face with each passing instant. He could see the arrowhead manifest itself before his pupil before he watched it split in half and fall to the ground.
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"An eye pierced by an arrow? How dreadful!" Lila gasped, cupping her hands over her mouth. "I can't imagine the pain he must have felt! How did he survive?"
"According to Ulrich, the Elves withdrew mysteriously after that," Hanz continued. "He assumes that they somehow knew of Captain Pieter's attack and went to intercept it. Ulrich himself lay on the ground and played dead, only rising after six hours to rush out of the forest. He headed back to Nuln, only to hear about the decimation of Pieter's forces. The captain himself and a few others made it back to Nuln and enlisted the help of several other units for their next assault. Ulrich, however, didn't want any more involvement in war and so deserted. He came here not long after and worked his current job ever since."
"Wow, I never knew Ulrich had such a troubling past..." Lila stammered.
Hanz chuckled. "Don't worry, he's a strong man. He always told me that the experience taught him to value the fragility of life."
"That's a beautiful sentiment," Lila replied, "almost like something out of the Holy Scripture."
"Really?" Hanz inquired, turning towards Lila. "I know very little about it myself."
"So you haven't read any of it?"
"I'm illiterate."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Lila turned away, "I didn't mean to offend you."
"No, it's not that," Hanz said, "I'm not angry. I'd like to know more about Sigmar if you'd tell me."
"What exactly would you like to know?"
"Well," Hanz began, choosing his words carefully, "is it true priests of Sigmar can call on divine energy to smite heretics and foes?"
"Yes, some can, or so I hear," Lila stated. "The great Warrior Priests that travel the land often join armies and fight against the Forces of Chaos." Lila instinctively made the Sign of the Hammer upon finishing uttering the name of the most wicked of the Ruinous Powers.
"Is your father able to manipulate it at all?"
Lila shook her head. "No, most priests are chosen for their piety, not for such skills. Some priests who are able to make connections with Sigmar himself are able to gain these powers, though very few are so selected."
"Well, if it's not to bold to ask, what separates such a power from magic?"
Lila smiled. "Yes, it's a common mistake that magic and divine prayers are the same. In fact, they are quite different. Sadly, I don't know much on this subject, but my father often warns me of the dangers of magic and how it only brings ruin."
"But haven't the Colleges of Magic trained many battle wizards who have saved the Empire on numerous occasions?" Hanz asked.
"Yes, but that isn't the magic we should be wary of. The battle wizards are specially trained and monitored, meaning they cannot pose a problem. We must be cautious of those that practice magic in secret, for they are the ones that often seek to gnaw at the roots of our society. These souls are usually followers of the Dark Pantheon or necromancers." Once again, Lila made the Sign of the Hammer.
"But, what if a magician can't join a college? Isn't there a limit? Or what if he just wants to practice alone and not be bothered by such things?"
"You seem awfully interested in magic," Lila said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I wouldn't suggest talking too loudly about this. They....the Inquisition...might take an interest in you."
"Sorry, I just don't know much about the world," Hanz said. "I've never been schooled. You are lucky that you can read, it will get you far. And your job as a Sister will surely allow you to aid the world."
"But, Hanz, you help the world too," Lila said. "People like you, the average workers, are the foundation of our society. Without you, the mightiest noble would be nothing. You help the world continue to run smoothly."
"Thank you," Hanz said.
"Well, I need to get going, but it was good talking with you," Lila said, standing and walking off the pier. "Good luck in your life, and may Sigmar bless you."
"The same to you," Hanz answered, turned back to the water, and buried his head in his hands.
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"Any idea this time?" Ulrich asked, turning to the robed figure of Father Johann. The two had become fairly intimate friends in a short space of time, in no small part thanks to the work they were forced to do together in regards to the corpses.
"There is an essence of evil emanating from his body," Johann's deep, declarative voice noted, his words echoing off the subterranean morgue.
"I could've told you that," Ulrich replied. He studied Johann's face, noting the man's oddly calm expression in such a time. The black hair that masked Johann's gray eyes acted as a blanket to coat the emotions of this cool-headed priest. Ulrich had heard that priests of Morr had become far colder, or at least gave off that emotion, as a result of their constant dealings with the dead. Ulrich figured that by now Johann, a fifty-year old man, had worked with hundreds of bodies. Thus, another one wasn't going to break his calm or inspire discomfort.
"I still cannot pinpoint what is wrong with him. As usual, there are no outward wounds and I see no signs of disease or starvation."
"Perhaps he was poisoned?" Ulrich suggested.
"No," Johann replied, his face flickering in the candlelight, "most poisons leave at least some trace of damage."
"Maybe it's a poison you've never seen," Ulrich said. "I've heard tales of Elves using toxins that can kill a man with a single drop."
"This does not seem like it would be the work of Elves," Johann answered. "As you know, Elves are a proud race. They would not want to get their hands dirty nor do they wish to waste precious supplies on commoners: there is little chance they would use that kind of substance on something as below them as a human peasant. It would be like if we called a battery of great-cannons to kill a flea."
"Never trust Elves, who are we to question their methods and motivations?"
Johann seemed to ignore the comment as he ran his rough hands over the corpse's head, searching in vain for any sign of damage. "It's almost as if they died naturally. But none of them seem old or weak, they have appeared from ages four to forty, so there seems to be no correlation in that regard. And even so, why would so many just drop dead and wash up on our shores the same way?"
"That's anyone's guess at this point, but we'd better solve things quick for all our sakes," Ulrich said as he pulled a pipe from his pocket, loaded in a leaf of tobacco and began smoking.
"And why is that?" Johann asked, standing up from his chair beside the pine examining table to regard Ulrich directly.
"Word on the street is the Witch Hunters are on their way."
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Hanz skipped his eighteenth stone of the day as he continued to look across the desolate water. It had been a slow month; he assumed the reports of bodies reaching the town had begun reaching the neighboring villages and so they had feared to trade. People in the Empire were superstitious, and with good reason. Hanz didn't blame them for not risking involvement in such a matter. At times he wondered why he didn't merely run away.
In truth, Hanz knew why. It was her. Lila. That name bore so much weight in his mind. His thoughts and observations showed him time and again that she was unreachable, yet his heart constantly pressed him onward, searching for a small sign of infatuation on her part. He shook his head and threw another stone, watching it bounce twice across the water before splashing beneath the surface, sending out a stream of thin ripples.
Day after day, he grew more and more enticed, yet he knew that with each passing week the time for her departure drew closer. She could not stay in this village forever; in two-months time she would leave for the Sisterhood in Altdorf. He cursed his luck. There were no other girls in the village like her, and yet he knew he needed to find one. He was almost twenty, and soon he would pass marriageable age. Life in the Empire, especially for the lower classes, was short, and so he needed to start a family as soon as possible.
But what would it matter if Hanz could not have the woman he loved?
"How's the work going, Hanz?" Ulrich's voice broke the lover's mental haze.
"Nowhere, another slow day," Hanz sighed.
"Rumor has it the supply shipment is arriving at nightfall." At least the town could count on their former allies not to leave them to starve.
"It always arrives at the same time every week, why are so keen to tell me today? Did you think I'd forget?"
"No," Ulrich shook his head. "Hanz, I have no children of my own, but you are like a son to me. I need to tell you something important because I want you to be safe. The Inquisition has dispatched some agents to investigate the bodies we've found; they will most likely arrive on the raft tonight. Once they find out who you are and your level of involvement, they will surely interrogate you. I've heard horror stories about innocents tortured for information when they really don't know anything. I want you to run away from the town."
"You're joking, aren't you?" Hanz said, smiling.
"I wish I was. I've heard rumors about this for awhile now, but it was confirmed by an old friend from a neighboring settlement who visited me a few hours ago. Hanz, you need to escape."
"But where will I go?" Hanz stammered. "This town is my home, my birthplace, I can't just pick up and leave!"
"You have to!" Ulrich yelled, rushing towards hands and grabbing the youth by his shoulders. "This is for your own good!"
"I doubt the Witch Hunters would just kill me! They'd need a reason!" Hanz spat back. "I can make my own decisions. If they come, I will stay to meet them."
"Sorry, Hanz, but I can't let you do that, this is for your own good," Ulrich reached behind his back and produced and short wooden club and swung it against the crown of Hanz's head. The youth stumbled briefly and collapsed as Ulrich dragged him away.
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"Good evening, sirs," Ulrich said, tipping his hat to the men stepping off the boat as he headed to help the pilot unload the crates and barrels of supplies. Ulrich was unfamiliar with the two men and surmised they must be the Witch Hunters. He kept his cool, but inside shuddered to think what horrors they could unleash if they so desired. Both wore long, black trenchcoats and ebony hats with wide brims. The collar of their trenchcoat was high enough that the majority of their faces were covered, preventing Ulrich from seeing anything except their shifting eyes gazing at his every action. A golden chain hung around each of their necks, dangling a hammer pendant in the center of their chests that glimmered in the evening torchlight. Each nodded briefly to Ulrich as they passed, exchanging no words as they moved immediately towards the chapel. Heaven help them all if they got the blasted priest involved...
"'Ey, 'elp me out over 'ere," the pilot called to Ulrich. The dockman nodded and walked over, picked up a cask and placed it heavily on the dock. "The cargo goes t' that guy Dietrich again."
"Hanz was lucky to get out when he did, Sigmar save us all," Ulrich muttered to himself.
"Wha's that?" The pilot inquired.
"Nothing. The wind is strong tonight."
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"Ugh..." Hanz moaned, clutching his forehead with his right hand as he used his left to push his body upwards from the cold ground. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, allowing him to make out the shapes of trees and shrubs all around him. Ulrich must have left him in a forest. Hanz gulped as he got to his feet and dusted himself off. He had heard rumors of hideous chaotic abominations in the forest, men with the heads of cattle and goats who ate the flesh of the living. Why had Ulrich forsaken him to such a place? Hanz had never been more than a few steps into the forest to gather firewood, rushing out post-haste to avoid the monsters he had heard dwelled therein.
Hanz looked all around him, searching vainly for a landmark he could use to navigate back to the village. He clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and offered a prayer to Sigmar, hoping the hammer-wielding deity would hear his pleas. As Hanz raised his eyelids he saw his prayers answered: the town's watchtower stood a distance away, its wooden frame visible over the treetops. He thanked Sigmar and raced through the undergrowth, branches tearing at his clothes along the way.
Suddenly, Hanz's world began to rotate forward as he felt something catch at his foot. He slammed into the forest floor, dust rising and sticking to his clothes as he groaned in pain. Hanz looked over his shoulder to see a curved root rising behind him; it appeared it had caught his foot, causing him to trip in his haste. Hanz attempted to push himself to his feet, but his arms felt numb. He struggled against the pain, but could not find the energy to rise.
A light caught Hanz eyes as it floated through the trees ahead of him. Shadows danced as the illumination moved across the area, seeming to edge closer and closer to Hanz. Had some sort of monster found him? Hanz tried desperately to get to his feet, but it was no use.
Hanz could now see a figure carrying the light, which appeared to be a small flame, shadowed behind the trees. It appeared to be a human, but Hanz knew that even men were not free of the taint of chaos. As the individual edged closer, the light extinguished. Hanz could now hear the shuffling of boots on the gritty ground as the figure came within a few feet of him. Hanz looked up, shuddering, before letting out a cry of disbelief.
"Ulrich?"
"Aye, Hanz," the older man said, offering his hand to the youth and pulling him to his feet.
"How are you here? What's going on? Why did you leave me here?" Hanz demanded.
"There isn't any time, we need to lay low here for awhile," Ulrich answered.
"I can't see for a damn, mind bringing up that light of yours again?"
"That's a bad idea," Ulrich replied, "if they see that, we will surely be caught."
"Who do you mean?" Hanz said, puzzled.
"The Witch Hunters."
Hanz gasped. "Are you serious?" Ulrich nodded slowly. "But even so, what could they want with us?"
"I saw them talking with Father Dietrich; that man has had it out for me for ages."
"But what do you have to fear?" Hanz asked. "You have done nothing wrong."
"Witch Hunters torture first and ask questions later," Ulrich noted.
"Well, I trust in my own innocence so I will not stay here. Give me your candle so I can get out of here, these woods frighten me to no end."
"I...lost my candle," Ulrich stuttered. "Even so, if you are caught they will question you about the deaths."
"But I don't know anything, none of us do," Hanz paused. "You seem awfully frightened, Ulrich. Is there something you aren't telling me?"
"N...no," the elder stammered. His head cocked rapidly to the side and twisted it oddly before grabbing Hanz's arm. "They're coming! We must hide!" Ulrich pulled Hanz behind a patched of scrub and pushed the youth to the ground. Hanz fought the urge to cry out, hoping Ulrich would explain this turn of events more in-depth once whatever it was passed.
Hanz laid still as best he could, but he kept having the urge to turn and ask Ulrich something. Anticipating this feeling, the older man pushed out his left palm, a sign for his friend to stay silent. Time seemed to ebb slowly, until Hanz heard the crunch of boots on the dry earth and saw the dim light of torches. He peeked through the shrubbery to see the legs of two figures. Were they the Witch Hunters Ulrich had spoke of?
As if to answer his question, the boots turned towards the shrubs and a pair of gloved hands shot through the brush and grabbed both men by their collars, thrusting them into the open. Hanz and Ulrich looked in shock upon the men as both were hoisted several feet off the ground by these imposing figures. Both were tall, at least six feet in height with one standing an inch or so taller than the other, though other than that feature the two men appeared the same as their faces were hidden behind the tall collars of their trenchcoats.
Hanz grunted as the light of the torch held by his assailant, the taller man, scorched his eyes with brightness. After a moment, he saw Ulrich held aloft by the second Witch Hunter who held a strange metallic object that glowed an eerie azure hue.
"I guess the sensor really did work," the taller Witch Hunter said, his voice neutral yet dark as he tilted his head slightly towards his partner.
"Yes, I told you Hansel is a reliable ally," the other replied, placing the object into one of the many pockets on his coat.
"Heh, it seems a bit ironic that we enlist the help of a mage to catch another," the first Witch Hunter spoke plainly. "Then again, Hansel is at least licensed, as opposed to the scoundrels here."
"No, please, don't hurt the boy!" Ulrich cried out. "He's innocent! I'm the one you want!"
"Oh, a confession?" The Witch Hunter holding Ulrich stated, lowering his prey to the ground. "That will save us a lot of time."
"Ulrich, what are you talking about?" Hanz stammered. "This man is innocent! What charges do you bring against him?"
"How dare you question us!" The Witch Hunter holding Hanz roared. He dropped the youth to the ground and brought his free hand back to deliver a punch to the youth's skull. As his arm pulled back, however, his partner stopped him.
"Yes, it was quite rude of you, but I suppose we might as well give you an explanation, especially since you are guilty of the same crime. You are both men practicing unlicensed spells, or Hedge Magic, in the Empire. Rather than turn yourselves in to the Colleges of Magic or stopping practice of such arts, you continue to use them on a fairly regular basis."
"That's a lie!" Ulrich growled. "The boy is innocent! Yes, I have dabbled with a few spells here and there, but nothing too dangerous. Even so, let the lad go, he's done nothing wrong."
"No, you're the liar," the shorter Witch Hunter shook his head. "I can see it in your eyes; I've dealt with friends trying to protect friends like this before. Even if your body language did not give it away, my sensor would. It is an aethritic sensor, an object attuned to the Winds of Magic that can sense individuals who practice magic and the degree to which they practice it. Judging by the brightness and the color of the response, both of you are Hedge Wizards that have used your talents within the last month."
"Ulrich....no! You too?" Hanz gasped. "How did you...?"
Ulrich shook his head, realizing the futility of further resistance. "I saw you practicing once, Hanz. Once, upon coming back from loading a barrel into the stockroom, I noticed you skipping stones from far away. Judging by the position of your hands and the length the stone bounced, I guessed you were propelling it with magic. You never could skip a stone normally when you were younger."
"Good, a confession from one as well as evidence to condemn the other," the taller Witch Hunter noted. "You will both be taken back to a holding area in Altdorf to await further questioning regarding the series of strange case of bodies appearing on your shores of late."
Ulrich mentally cursed, his mind racing as he saw one Witch Hunter clasp manacles around Hanz's hands while the other moved to do the same to him. The old man shook his head before declaring. "We are both innocent, and killing us will yield no information. I, however, know who the perpetrator of this crime is and will lead you to him if you promise freedom for the boy."
"Feh, we could merely torture it out of you later," the shorter Witch Hunter said. "Even so, you could be lying."
"If you wait too long more innocents will die and this man will get closer to what he wants," Ulrich declared.
"So, what exactly is such an individual planning?" The shorter Witch Hunter asked.
"If I were to give everything away, you'd have no reason to keep either of us alive," Ulrich noted. "I've known of my...gifts...for years, and have kept them hidden because I've heard horror stories about what happens to those who are discovered. Either way, you had best trust me if you ever want to solve this."
"Fine," the taller Witch Hunter stated gruffly. "Lead us to this guilty figure. But know that if either of you tries to resist, flee, or help the villain, we will not hesitate to kill you both. And, to prevent you from stalling, you have a time limit of twenty-four hours."
Ulrich smiled and turned to his captors. "I can lead you there in five."
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Hanz's arms were numb from the hours they had spent tied behind his back, but a deeper pain was gnawing at him. Not even a day ago, his life had been fairly normal and no one had questioned his motives or lifestyle. Now, he was at the threshold of his death following a friend who may or may not be leading them into a life-threatening situation. Hanz doubted Ulrich had any idea what was going on, but then again he was unsure if he could trust the old man anymore. Had Ulrich been so kind to him because he saw a reflection of himself in Hanz, another monster that needed to shut his curse away from the world?
There was no chance of a normal life after this, Hanz assured himself. Even if the Witch Hunters let him free, something he doubted based on the accounts he heard of their methods and beliefs, he would never be able to explain the story to anyone. Worse yet, his dark secret would surely be discovered by the townspeople. They would hate him, shun him, revile him....even Lila.
Hanz cursed his luck. He had not even known of this power until several months before. While lazily dropping rocks into the river one day, he found that ones he focused on seemed to slow in their descent. He continued this experiment, until finally he decided to try skipping a stone, something he had never been able to do before. Miraculously, by focusing on the rock, he seemed to be able to propel it effortlessly across the water. At first, Hanz thought it was merely a dream or coincidence, but slowly he discovered other small powers such as the ability to make a small pile of twigs arrange themselves into a bundle.
Even if he was a so-called Hedge Wizard, why was he seen as such a danger? His skills were basic at best, mere party tricks that had no chance of hurting anyone. Of course he had heard of unlicensed wizards calling on the Powers of Chaos, but he had no such desire or ability. Why had he been chosen when other madmen surely roamed the lands?
"We have arrived," Ulrich whispered to the Witch Hunters as they stood outside a small cottage near a copse of trees. The house was plain, large enough to hold a family of four Hanz guessed, with oak walls and a thatched roof; the building, however, had clearly seen better days as much of the wood was rotted and about a third of the roof was missing. Ulrich had led the men upstream from the river for several hours, bringing them to this spot precisely as the sun began to peek over the hilltops while the morning mists began their swirling, vaporous dance. "He is inside." Hanz and Ulrich looked at each other in awe as their manacles fell to the ground.
"It seems best to use whatever we have at our disposal," the shorter Witch Hunter stated. "If this man truly is responsible for such a disgusting and questionable act, we will need assistance from all sources. In exchange for your assistance we will allow you both to walk free."
Hanz knew there was little aid he could provide, but he nodded and thanked the men, preferring to have the option to stay alive.
The taller Witch Hunter approached the cottage door and kicked it in with a single motion from his massive right boot. The rotted portal cracked under the violent assault and crashed to the ground sending a mass of dust and splinters into the air. The shorter Witch Hunter handed a loaded crossbow to his ally while checking his own to ensure it was ready. The two entered the house, motioning for Ulrich and Hanz to follow.
Upon entering the building, Hanz was surprised by the austere air it held. Though the furnishings were plain, they all showed signs of decay and a sense of dread hung in the air. Bowls on the table housed insects who crawled between a mash of rotting fruit, dust floated in from a single opening on the rear wall which, Hanz assumed, served as a make-shift window at some time. The fireplace was filled with soot and ash, and it appeared the lone log within it had been placed there several years before.
"There is nothing here, wizard," the taler Witch Hunter spat, turning towards Ulrich and leveling his crossbow at the old dockman. "It appears you did lie to me."
Ulrich shook his head. "Not so, look below." Hanz and the two Witch Hunters took Ulrich's advice, turning to see a trapdoor below the taller Witch Hunter's feet. The black-clad Inquisitor opened the hatch and peered down to see a series of granite steps plunging into the darkness.
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Lila awoke shortly after sunrise, yawned, left her bed and donned her robes before walking from her room at the back of the church towards her father's. Like many clergy and their families, Lila and Dietrich inhabited rooms within the chapel itself. It suited her well enough, but it did mean that her father was forced to conduct many of his meetings outside the building.
"Damn heretics, I will never let them enter the House of Sigmar," Dietrich often told his daughter. To him, any who did not give themselves body and soul to the Heldenhammer were as villainous as the worst sinner. Lila did not agree with this sentiment, but she had long ago engraved the Precepts of Sigmar into her mind; one of the foremost of these laws was 'Honor thy Elders, respect thy Parentage.' She often sighed inwardly when she watched her father shoo away those he deemed unworthy to enter the sacred building. Once, her father had turned away an old woman begging for a place to spend the night, for this woman wore a scale pendant, a Sign of Verena, Goddess of Justice. Wishing to give this woman some form of charity, Lila followed her own path of justice and admitted the beggar late in the night, allowing the woman to sleep in Lila's bed while she took the floor. The woman left early in the morning before Dietrich woke up and left a silver piece and a note for Lila which read: "May all the Gods bless you."
Often, Dietrich would move far away from the chapel when conducting such meetings. Lila assumed he did not even want the 'heretics' to be in sight of Sigmar's abode. Occasionally, he would disappear for a full day, wanting to conduct such meetings in a secluded place far from the chapel, or so he told Lila. While many townspeople told rumors about such things, implying that Dietrich may be involved in some illicit activities or was a member of a secret Imperial Organization, Lila trusted her father deeply. She never asked about his meetings, content to trust in him. Why would a man with such deep faith in Sigmar ever do anything vile?
Lila reached her father's door and knocked three times. "Father, I am about to prepare breakfast. When are we going to start the morning prayers?" She received no response and knocked again, before noticing a piece of parchment lying at her feet. She held up the note and read the hastily scrawled script:
Dearest Lila,
I have made a horrendous mistake. Before more harm comes of it, I must attempt to rectify my sins and atone for my actions. I do not ask you to forgive me, and I hope you never learn of what I speak. If I never see you again, know that I love you. I wish you the best of luck in your future. May Sigmar protect you!
-Dietrich
Lila dropped the note suddenly and rushed out the front door of the chapel, neglecting to put on her shoes in her haste. Where had father gone? What did he speak of? Was this some kind of joke or trick? What was going on?
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Hanz shivered as a gust of cold air met him as he descended the stone steps below the house. He was the last one to enter the thin corridor, a passageway which only allowed them to walk two abreast. The Witch Hunters took the lead while Hanz and Ulrich stayed back.
"It's dark as a dungeon here," the shorter Witch Hunter remarked. "Would one of you wizard's mind lighting this torch for us?" He reached into his cloak and tossed flint and tinder along with a single shaft of wood with oil-cloth at the end to Hanz. The youth looked momentarily confused before Ulrich laughed.
"I'll handle it. Hanz, return the supplies to our friends," Ulrich stated. Hanz did as he was bid, and watched as the silhouette of Ulrich's right arm extended into the darkness. The old man's hand was balled into a tight fist, but after moment it opened up to reveal a flickering flame dancing atop Ulrich's palm.
"So you didn't have a candle in the forest, eh?" Hanz chuckled, trying to make light of the grim situation. Ulrich smiled, his one eye bright in the dim light.
"No time to waste, we must press onward," the taller Witch Hunter noted, pointing ahead with his crossbow. "Brace yourselves, men, anything could be up ahead."
Hanz took a moment to study the walls around them. They, like the stairs, were carved from granite. The youth was unsure whether the stone had been moved here or whether this passage had been carved out of an underground quarry. The walls were bare save for the occasional spider or ant which crawled across the carved surface, these arthropods looking far more menacing in the flashing illumination afforded by Ulrich's spell.
After about fifty paces, the men halted before an oaken door. The timbers were beginning to rot and here and there holes peeked into the room beyond. The Witch Hunter nodded to one another and raised their boots to kick in the door.
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"What do you have for me today, Dietrich?" The ragged voice cracked in the darkened chamber. Dietrich turned slowly towards the man who addressed him. Dietrich swore that every time he viewed this individual, a man by the name of Otto Groben, he lost a year from his own life.
Dietrich turned hesitantly towards one of the barrels he had rolled into the chamber minutes before. "Three barrels equals three, ages..."
"I don't give a damn about the details," Otto rasped, rising from the stone throne in the middle of the cobweb choked chamber. "I need my sustenance, now!"
Dietrich sidled over to the barrel and removed the lid, tossing the wooden disk lazily to the floor. He often wondered how he could have let himself become so deeply involved in something so malicious. It had all began at the last Geheimnisnacht. Dietrich, like most wise folk of the Empire, was locked inside his home when he heard wild knocks on the door. He tried to ignore them, fearing a monster had come for Lila and him, but finally he felt he could not ignore the sounds and approached the portal. Upon opening it, he found the ragged form of Otto Groben, his body swathed in a moth-eaten sackcloth cloak. Dietrich, believing Otto to be an innocent seeking refuge, allowed him inside.
It was all a mistake. Otto immediately rushed towards Lila's room and stood over the maid's bed, beginning to chant odd words. Dietrich was horrified as he watched the man attempt some incantation on his only daughter; the Priest of Sigmar cried out for mercy, but Otto did not desist. Finally, Dietrich made a choice that would cost many their lives.
"If you need bodies, I can bring them to you," Dietrich declared. Otto turned, stopped his chanting, and raised an eyebrow. "Please, just spare my daughter and the people of this town."
And so the deal was struck. Dietrich learned shortly afterward that Otto was a Necromancer, a wielder of the Black Art that laughed at the laws of Life and Death. Otto, however, was quite old, and needed constant sustenance to sustain his mockery of a life. Thus, he required people brought to him whose souls he could consume. Dietrich struck a deal with the devil, utilizing his contacts through the Church and his reputation as a pious man to have "heretics" from nearby towns captured, placed into barrels, and shipped to Schwartzburg. The priest would then transport this grisly cargo to Otto's abode several miles away and watch in horror as these innocents were stripped of life. This process continued each week, and each time Dietrich felt more disgusted with what he was doing. Worst of all, Otto ordered him to dispose of the bodies in the nearby river, but most of the corpses ended up washing up on the shores of Schwartzburg.
"Well, are you bringing out the victim or not?" Otto asked, snapping Dietrich out of his thoughts.
"No, I'm bringing down a new victim!" Dietrich declared, reaching into the barrel and whipping out a two-handed warhammer shaped like Sigmar's legendary weapon, Ghal Maraz. Though Dietrich was not a young man nor had much military training, a life of lifting piles of books and manuscripts had given him thick arms and the fire of righteousness burned in his heart. The priest wheeled the weapon towards Otto's head, closing his eyes as he heard a mighty crunch.
"Heretics and sinners, surrender now or prepare to be judged!" A voice boomed through the chamber, echoing off the granite walls.
"F...father Dietrich?" Hanz's voice entered the priest's ears. Dietrich opened his eyes and took in the scene around him. His warhammer swing had gone wide, missing the Necromancer and instead colliding with the wall, chipping off a bit of the stone. He turned to Otto, seeing the Dark Wizard's eyes lit up with fear. Dietrich then looked behind him, noticing an unlikely quartet: Hanz and Ulrich the dockmen and a duo of Witch Hunters. Dietrich noticed that a flame seemed to be dancing atop Ulrich's palm, a sight that surprised and slightly confused the priest. The mighty door that had once led into the room now lie as a pile of cracked wooden scraps; most likely the sound of their cracking had been what Dietrich had heard moments before. It all seemed like some wild dream or fable, but Dietrich knew things were beyond all that.
"Will you surrender or face the Dungeons of Altdorf?" The taller Witch Hunter declared, leveling his crossbow at Otto.
"I will be damned before I am taken by any one of the Emperor's dogs!" Otto declared, momentarily spry as he leaped to his feet and swirled his hands around, bolts of green magical energy crackling between his fingertips. He began chanting a stream of words in a language none of the assembled understood. Not five seconds passed before Otto dropped to the ground, one crossbow bolt lodged in his chest, the other in his skull.
"Wow...such skill," Hanz whispered, amazed at the martial ability of the Witch Hunters.
"Pathetic," the shorter Witch Hunter sighed, "these upstart dark mages seem to think the world is their toy. Little do they know how very weak and insignificant they are. Now, back to the matter at hand." The Witch Hunters turned toward Dietrich. "Who are you and what is your involvement in this matter?"
"M...m....my name is Dietrich and I am the Priest of Sigmar for the chapel of Schwartzberg," he stuttered.
"And why would a man devoted to our Lord Sigmar aid the actions of a Necromancer?" The shorter Witch Hunter continued his inquiry.
"I did it to protect the town! Please, you must let me explain! Take to Altdorf, Nuln, Talabheim, anywhere! I will endure any dungeon, just please give me a chance to explain and atone for my sins!" Father Dietrich begged, kneeling on the floor at the feet of the Witch Hunters.
"Fine then," the shorter Inquisitor stated. "I will bring you and the corpse back to Altdorf immediately. You will give me all the information I request on this case and then be sent to trial three days after my questioning finishes. Understood?"
"Oh yes, thank you, kind sir!" Dietrich said, rising to his feet. The two Witch Hunters nodded to each other as the shorter one walked forward and slung the corpse of Otto Groben over his shoulders. He walked out of the room, Dietrich in tow, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.
"Come, we are leaving this place as well," the taller Witch Hunter said after a brief survey of the room, turning and exiting through the doorway.
As the trio walked forward, Hanz began whispering to Ulrich. "How did you know what we would find here?"
"I have been keeping an eye on the village for some time now," Ulrich chuckled, "literally." He pointed to his empty eye socket. "A little bit of Hedge Magic allowed me to take out my eye and leave it in the old watchtower. That is how I saw Dietrich sneaking out with those barrels several nights a month, and that is also the way I saw the Witch Hunters approaching us when we were in the woods. Eventually, I got curious about what Dietrich was doing and so I shadowed him one night and saw him enter that house above us. I waited a bit, but I had to return to bed so I never saw him leave the building. I wasn't sure if this linked directly to the mystery, but I hoped it would be some sort of illicit activity whose discovery I could use to trade for our lives. I always wondered if he saw me following him at some point and that's why he always held a grudge. "
Hanz laughed a bit, enjoying some truth at last. "What will become of us now?"
"Well, if that man keeps his word, you will go free and be able to return to your life in Schwartzberg." Ulrich paused, the silence giving weight to the moment. "I, on the other hand, will probably be jailed for the practice of Hedge Wizardry."
"No, you led them here, without you this mystery may have never been solved," Hanz stated. "I am sure they will let you free, or at least give you a short sentence." Ulrich chuckled to himself; the boy still had such a naïve view of the world.
After several minutes of walking, the assembled men were once again outside. The sun was now more visible in the early morning sky, lighting up the section of river and revealing the beauty of the plains surrounding it. Hanz took and deep breath and smiled; he was alive, a mystery had been solved, a villain had been brought down.
In the distance, Hanz could see Dietrich and the shorter Witch Hunter walking off in the direction of the sun. The youth doubted he would ever see the priest again, and shuddered to think that a man who was so pious could have such a dark side. The sound of a winch and tightening ropes caught Hanz's attention and he spun to see the taller Witch Hunter loading another bolt into his crossbow.
"Is there something wrong?" Hanz asked. The Witch Hunter turned towards Hanz and Ulrich purposefully.
"For the crime of Hedge Wizardry, I must now execute the two of you. I thank you for your assistance and cooperation, and may Sigmar have mercy on your corrupt souls." The man declared.
"No!" Ulrich roared. "You promised the boy could go free! Take my life, but spare him!"
"I cannot take such a risk. The boy has already seen too much darkness and there is no telling what he will do now. The practice of Hedge Magic is a criminal offense in the Empire and must be punished." With that, a lone crossbow bolt flew towards Hanz's chest. Time seemed to slow for the youth as the iron tip of the projectile edged closer to his heart. An inch away from his chest the bolt seemed to halt and cracked in half, falling lazily towards the ground.
The Witch Hunter turned to see a smirk on Ulrich's face. "If you damn us for our skills, then we may as well use them to stay alive as long as we can! Hanz, run! Get somewhere safe, I will delay him!"
The Witch Hunter dropped his crossbow and reached inside his trenchcoat to produce a long, silver broadsword. He charged at Ulrich, who showed unbelievable dexterity and dodged to the side. The Witch Hunter, however, was far faster and brought his sword around in an arc, cleaving through Ulrich's chest and sending the aged dockman to his death.
Hanz screamed, tears welling in his eyes as he began to run. Ulrich had died, but he had given his life so that Hanz may live. He could not waste this chance. Suddenly, Hanz felt something cold in his gut and a wave of pain shot through his abdomen. He tilted his head around to see the outline of the Witch Hunter's body, sword still clutched in his right hand. Hanz looked down to see the weapon's point protruding from his gut, before disappearing out the other side. The youth crumpled to the ground and his world went black.
The Witch Hunter produced a piece of pure white handkerchief from his cloak and wiped off the blood from his sword. He discarded the bloodied cloth, allowing it to float on Hanz's lifeless head. He turned away, sheathed his sword, picked up his crossbow and walked onward.
"In the name of Sigmar, I judge all the wicked."