Welcome to my fic; by the way, the title is German for The Witch Hunter. I've tried something a little experimental here with the perspectives; it switches between third and first person, settling on first in later chapters. It should be clear when that happens, but I'm not sure what effect it has on the pacing. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this and any other topic in the reviews.

This Warhammer Fantasy fic is set long before the Storm of Chaos, the End Times, and the Age of Sigmar. None of that is relevant to this fic. I've tried writing Warhammer Fantasy fics in the past, and they always spiral into massive, apocalyptic stakes, which made the writing feel oppressive, especially with the constant retcons around the Storm of Chaos (which was cool), the End Times (which were arguably even cooler), and the Age of Sigmar (about which I'm skeptical). Those also aren't the environment in which I can tell the kinds of stories I want to tell. So, please enjoy my lower (but by no means actually low) stakes detective story. You should expect a little gratuitous French, German, and Latin in this fic, none of which is necessary to understand and which I hope is not distracting.

1/27/17: Consolidated chapters.

"And we are on the record in the matter of Imperial Inquiry CI2367, into the events surrounding the riots that consumed the city of Carroburg this last 1st of Sommerzeit and Sonnstill, in the eleventh year of Emperor Karl Franz, or the year of Sigmar's Empire 2513. We are convened here for the deposition of one Erich Duquesne, before commissioners Cornelis de Smedt, Heinrich von Worlitz, and Albrecht Ollenhauer."

"Thank the gods we got all that out of the way," Duquesne cut in dryly. Duquesne was not tall, but he was strongly built. He had a slight paunch, but it obviously sat atop layers of hard muscle. He had dark green eyes, dark hair and several days of salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. He had several small scars on his face, and one much larger one behind his left ear, which disappeared into his graying black hair at one end, and into the collar of his shirt at the other. The heavy lines on his face made him look older than his forty-two years.

He had removed his tall, wide-brimmed leather hat and set it on the table, transposed between himself and his interrogators like a rampart. His heavy black brigandine overcoat hung on a rack near the door, the warding symbols on the riveted plates just barely visible, its great weight causing the coat rack to teeter almost imperceptibly as the garment shifted minutely in the slight breeze that blew in through the tiny windows piercing the fortress walls enclosing him. He wore a reddish-brown leather jerkin with Sigmar's twin-tailed comet over the heart, and underneath it, an understated dark grey doublet, with a slight ruff of rather poor lace peeking out over the collar of the jerkin. The cuffs of his worn leather breeches were stuffed into the legs of his tall boots, caked with mud.

"Yes. The formalities must be observed," de Smedt said, with a touch of asperity. De Smedt was exceptionally tall, and equally slender, and probably would have looked a like a starved vulture but for the solemn gravitas he radiated. His cheeks and sea-green eyes were heavily sunken, giving him a slightly skeletal look that was rather disconcertingly contradicted by his medium tan. His body below the chin was invisible underneath his elaborate robes and gold-and-ruby collar of state, signifying his exalted status as Lord High Inquisitor for Reikland West. Duquesne thought it was odd that a Reikland official was heading proceedings in Middenland, but suspected it was the result of some ordinary political maneuverings.

Most Lords High Inquisitor were former witch hunters themselves or at least members of Sigmar's priesthood. But Duquesne's source in the Imperial Civil Service told him that de Smedt was neither. His previous posting, apparently, had been as Secretary of Customs & Excise for Reikland. He was reputed to enjoy the trust of the Emperor. Indeed, Duquesne noted that de Smedt bore a small ring on his right hand, on which was engraved an almost unreadable inscription: C.F.S.G.I.S.A. or Carolus Franciscus, Sigmar Gratia Imperator Semper Augustus in the Classical tongue.

"Obviously."

De Smedt ignored Duquesne's sarcasm, and continued, "Now then, please state your full name for the record."

"You just said my name, on the record."

"Yes, and now we need it from you, in full. If you please."

Duquesnesighed, "Charles Erich van Duquesne. Just call me Duquesne. I don't use the particle."

"Very well, Herr Duquesne. What is your occupation?"

"I am Junior Templar, First Grade, of the Church of Sigmar."

"And to what division are you assigned?"

"Strictly speaking, none. I am currently confined to a cell in this fortress."

"What was your last assignment, then?"

"Criminal & Chaotic Investigation."

"How many colleagues serve with you in that division?"

"None, since my last partner was killed."

"And are you a natural born citizen of the Empire?"

"No."

"Where were you born?"

"At Château Duquesne in the Marches of Couronne."

"You are a Bretonnian nobleman by birth?"

"Yes and no. Yes, in the legal sense."

"Is your family unpopular?"

"They were when I left."

"Why?"

"Among other things, we are partially descended from Norse raiders."

"Ah. Chaos worshippers in your past?"

"About twenty generations ago. But you knew that."

De Smedt, to his credit, betrayed nothing. Duquesne didn't react. He'd hoped he could get the commissioner to reveal at least some of his hand with a little prodding. Most Imperial bureaucrats loved to gloat. Not de Smedt, apparently, though they were just getting started.

"You were raised in the Cult of the Lady?"

"I was, but we also kept UIric and Taal in my father's house. It was part of why the blue bloods didn't like us."

"Do you have any siblings?"

"Two older brothers, and three sisters."

"And what are their conditions?"

"Richard, the eldest, is training to succeed my father at the King's court. Jasper is serving with some bearded horse lord in the Troll Country. Sibylle is married to a minor count in Bastonne, Jeanne is married to a merchant prince in Marienburg, and Marie teaches chemistry at Imperial University."

"Diverse paths in your family."

"My father is an horrific tyrant. Parents like that drive children away."

"Indeed. So why did you leave Bretonnia?"

"Well, that's the other reason my father's peers don't like him. The King paid us a visit with his whole entourage, and there was a misunderstanding."

"Enlighten me."

"It involved a woman."

"Whom?"

"I think it was the Queen's second cousin or something like that. The King didn't care, but the Queen wanted all our heads. In the end, I was banished and my family suffered under a number of tedious feudal penalties."

"How old were you at the time?"

"Sixteen."

"Where did you go?"

"Estalia, mercenary, bodyguard, thug. Tilea, professional mercenary, service in the Border Princes and with Dwarfs. Then the Empire."

"How did you end up in the Empire?"

"I was old. Wasn't cut out for mercenary work anymore. I took my back pay, and came here."

"And what did you do in the Empire?"

"I attended the University at Nuln. Graduated with a Bachelor of Humanities. Then to the School of Gunnery."

"Were you in the artillery as a mercenary?"

"I fought with Dwarfs, who rarely left their guns at home. I'm a fast learner, and the School's Chief of Manufacturing, a Dwarf, was the brother of a friend."

"You are a Dwarf Friend?"

"Not remotely. Just had a drinking buddy. I did meet a real Dwarf Friend. That man barely seemed human."

"I must admit, Herr Duquesne, none of this explaining how you became a Templar of Sigmar."

"Well, you didn't actually ask how that happened."

"Then how did it?"

"Well, after I wore out my welcome with the gunners, I had to find something else to do for a living. I settled on the Templars of Sigmar."

"Do you even worship Sigmar?"

"No less than anyone else in the Empire."

"Most Templars are devout."

"Most Templars are also assholes."

Again, de Smedt didn't rise to the bait. "Be that as it may, how did you secure a position in the Order, considering your lack of piety?"

"Well, as I'm sure you know, the Templars are long on devotion and strong, young bodies, but often short on intelligence, education, and quick thinking-"

"A little full of ourselves, aren't we, Herr Duquesne?" one of the other commissioners, von Worlitz, broke in with a sardonic smile

"I survived fighting an Ork warboss. I faced ten Arabyan cavaliers alone. I cheated a Tilean pirate admiral at cards and took his flagship, which I then burnt to the waterline. I insulted a Dwarf king to his face and then drank him under the table. I killed a Norscan marauder chief with his own weapon. I won a chess match against the Dean of Mathematics at the University. I put a round shot from a gun through a fifty-foot target a mile away. I served on the deck of a Dwarfen ironclad warship against Eldar corsairs. So yes, I'm really damned full of myself."

Duquesne knew that none of these were the whole story. The Warboss he had 'fought' had crossed blades with him exactly once before being felled by a cannonball to the face from 50 meters. The Arabyan cavaliers fell to infighting when they were deciding who would have the honor of first blood. Duquesne had dosed the Tilean pirate admiral's drink with opium before the card game, and burned the ship accidentally while fleeing from the admiral's vengeful men. The Dwarf 'King' was such in name only, his family having lost its hold centuries ago, and by the time he met Duquesne, was a broken alcoholic with nothing to his name and too cowardly to take the Slayer's Oath, and thus reviled by all Barak Varr. The Norscan marauder had dropped his weapon after Duquesne shot him in the back while the chieftain fled an ill-fated skirmish with Duquesne's mercenary company. Three days after his 'chess match' against the Dean of Mathematics, the 96-year-old man was committed to a hospice and lobotomized for possession, dying three more days thereafter. The gun had been set by a Dwarf master gunner, and Duquesne had merely pulled the lanyard. And the ironclad did not engage the corsairs at all.

"Yes," de Smedt said, with a short glare at von Worlitz, "and the answer to my question is?"

"I was recruited."

"Who recruited you?"

"He's dead."

"I'll be the judge of that. The name."

"No. I'm not going to let you smear a man who was a friend to me when I needed it."

"His name, Herr Duquesne."

"Make me."

"Don't tempt me, sir. I am more than willing to relocate this examination to a less…convivial setting."

"This you call convivial?"

"You heard me."

"And I said make me."

De Smedt turned to one of the clerks waiting by the door. "Get me von Hochschildt."

Shit, Duquesne thought. I figured they were just going to torture me. "My apologies, Meneer de Smedt. There's no need to disturb the mind reading freak."

"You don't like Herr von Hochschildt?"

Duquesne squinted at de Smedt, "You have met him, right?"

"Yes."

"Then you know."

De Smedt didn't pursue the digression further, asking simply for "The name. And I remind you that you are under oath. The penalty for perjury is rather…extreme."

"Georg von Kronzstadt."

De Smedt turned back to his clerk, "Investigate that name." He turned back to Duquesne, "If you're lying, and this man doesn't exist, or is alive, or was never a canon in the Church of Sigmar, you will hear of it."

"Oh gods, the burden."

"Will you desist with your sarcasm?" the other commissioner, Ollenhauer, said

"No, Herr Ollenhauer. It's my way of registering protest with this process."

"What in the process do you object to?" de Smedt asked

"The fact that I'm not drinking right now, which I should be doing."

De Smedt dropped the issue, appearing slightly embarrassed that he had risen to Duquesne's bait. "Where were you initially assigned as a member of the Templar order?"

"I trained in Altdorf for eight months, and then I was assigned to Middenheim for about two years. I've been in Carroburg the last three years."

"Who is your commanding officer?"

"Karl von Kalbach."

"His rank?"

"Paladin."

"Do you have an opinion of Herr von Kalbach?"

"He's a focused and confident officer."

"Is that all?"

"I don't think that much about my colleagues. I just do my job and let the rest sort itself out."

"Now, I don't think that's completely true. We've heard testimony from a number of your fellow Templars and read a number of reports to the effect that you and Herr von Kalbach clashed regularly."

"I'm a detective. Von Kalbach is a zealot. My work is based on reason and evidence. He adheres to a different standard."

De Smedt seemed to ignore him, "Specifically, you objected on several occasions to executions."

"I had evidence exculpating them. The only crime those people committed was being poor and in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Not according to the courts."

"The ecclesiastical courts," Duquesne said with a sneer. "The bishop read von Kalbach's reports and convicted them in absentia, without even convening a hearing. And if he saw my evidence, he ignored it. He just signed death warrants. The accused didn't get to say a word in their defense until they were tied to the pyre."

De Smedt regarded Duquesne coolly for a few seconds, and the left side of his mouth quirked slightly as said, "Regrettable, I'm sure."

Duquesne said nothing. He slouched in his chair, steepled his index fingers under his nose and stared at de Smedt's forehead unblinkingly.

When he was sure that he wouldn't be interrupted, de Smedt continued, "Do you have proof that the bishop failed to comply with Code of Ecclesiastical Procedure or the Code of Evidence?"

"No, if only because the records were altered, and the evidence went missing."

"Ah. Conspiracies everywhere it is with you, I see."

Hmm. Duquesne thought. Seems a little early to be lashing out.

"Is that a question?"

"What weapons do you carry with you in the line of duty?"

"I carry a double-barrel top-break pistol, a double-barrel holdout pistol, a hatchet, a dirk, two throwing knives, a gladius, and a rapier."

"That is quite an arsenal. I am informed that the Uniform Code of the Church of Sigmar mandates that its Templars carry a flintlock pistol, knife, and rapier only."

"Yes. I tried that. That's why I've got this," Duquesne said, standing and pulling up his shirt, jerkin, and doublet, to reveal a large, red scar covering the left side of his torso. "I put a bullet right between that Flamer's eyes, and it kept coming. That hasn't happened since I started carrying Arielle again."

"Arielle?"

"My mother. Also, coincidentally, the name of the Queen whose cousin I slept with," Duquesne said, yanking a huge chunk of black metal from his belt, which he set on the table with a thunk.

"Charming," de Smedt said with another twitch of his mouth. "I take it that is the weapon in question?"

"Indeed. Forged in Barak Varr and inscribed with Khazalid runes of striking, banishing and warding."

"How did you obtain a rune weapon?"

"Lesser runes. I had to call in every favor I had in the city, and some outside the city. I'm not welcome there anymore."

"You? Unwelcome somewhere? Perish the thought," Ollenhauer interjected.

Before de Smedt could reign his man in, Duquesne said, "I'm beginning to think you don't like me much, Herr Ollenhauer."

"I-"

"Enough," de Smedt said shortly and without heat. "Now, Herr Duquesne, let us turn to the matter at hand: your investigation."

"Oh, let us."

"So, tell us about what happened in the early morning of the 1st of Sommerzeit?"

"Well, it was hot as Khorne's balls. I remember that. And I was on duty…"

"Templar! Templar!" the boy shouted, as he burst through the door of the chapterhouse, where I was, as usual, the watch officer for the early morning.

"What?! I'm trying read back here."

The messenger skidded into my office, stopping just short of slamming into my oak desk, shortly followed by my first sergeant, Fritz Uhl, who I dismissed with a wave. "Well? What is it boy?"

"There's a riot, sir."

"Do I look like the watch? Get them."

"I did, sir. I only came after they attacked the mob."

"And what happened when they did?"

"The watch commander caught on fire. Bright blue fire, no red. Then the first rank caught on fire. Then the second. Then they ran. The poor quarters are aflame."

"Godsdamnitall. The Changer. Fritz!" I shouted, for some reason, since he was already in my office.

"Yes, Templar?"

"Roust the zealots, and all the men at arms. Saddle up. We've got daemons to kill."

"Aye, Captain."

"Can't call me that anymore."

"Yes, sir," Fritz said as he disappeared out the door.

Just as the bell began to ring throughout the chapterhouse, I turned to the boy and said, "Well done, boy. Get out of here, stay safe."

"Yes, lord," he said, bolting.

I spent the next few minutes strapping on my gear before departing for the stables, where grooms were preparing the chapterhouse's horses. A squire came up and belted a cuirass onto my torso. I swept the hat off my head, and it was replaced with a steel sallet. The squire tried to affix the visor, but I waved him off. I'd need to see if I was going to shoot.

I visually inspected the wards on the armor. It looked solid enough to let me survive until I came to grips with the enemy. I checked my pistol, which was really more of a cut-down rifle, and made sure it was loaded with two .50-70 brass cartridges. The Striker shone almost imperceptibly red, while the Banisher glowed a brighter blue. I slid my sword from its scabbard, checking it for rust. Satisfied, I leapt into the saddle. "Lance," I said to the groom, who pulled a 3-meter length of wood and steel from the magazine on one wall of the stable.

I hefted the weapon, and noted that it was slightly warped. As I tested its weight, several other Templars came into the stable, and grooms quickly outfitted them with armor and horses. I turned to them and said, "Lances, gentlemen. You do know how to use them, right?"

"Yes, sir," one of them, von Gleichen, said. Normally, I'd have had to endure some obduracy from my subordinates, many of whom were suspicious of my faith and nationality. Not tonight.

Ten minutes later, the whole chapterhouse, about thirty mounted men-at-arms, was assembled outside the stables. "Templars of Sigmar, move out!" I shouted, taking the lead with our chaplain, a fiercely white-bearded Warrior Priest of Sigmar, Konrad von Warburg. The holy man's massive warhammer hung from his saddle. In his right hand, he bore a lance like the rest of the chapter.

We rode down the Burgstrasse at a trot towards the nearest plaza, the Guntherplatz, where the riot was most intense. The Guntherplatz was also the heart of the city's poor quarter. Ahead of us, two scouts rode to clear the way. "I doubt they're encountering any resistance after they showed off the watch," I shouted to von Warburg. "Nowhere near the inner wall yet. The Duke is probably still marshalling his forces."

"One hopes," Konrad responded. "We should link up with them."

"No. We've got to put down this riot, keep the city from burning down, and then extinguish the taint. We can't wait for the Duke."

"We will all die."

"If it be so, then so be it."

Von Warburg's face lit up with a savage smile. "Bien dit, monsieur chevalier."

No matter that he butchered my language, I couldn't keep a fierce grin from my face. "With luck, the rioters will be distracted with some debauchery and brutality," I said

"I would not underestimate the cunning of Tzeentchians," von Warburg cautioned, though his eyes were still bright.

The approach to the square was mercifully free of fleeing civilians, which was not to say that a few didn't get trampled. But, either the scouts had done their job and shunted the civilians into alleys, or they were all dead or joined the mob. I rather suspected the latter.

When we were within three hundred meters of the center of the riot, I turned to the chapter, raising my lance above my head, and shouted, "Pick up the pace!" The company thundered to a gallop, and within seconds we were lowering our lances.

"Follow me! Into the center! Don't break formation! No mercy for traitors! No respite! No fear!"

We surged again, and I leaned forward in my saddle, my mouth split in a huge, feral smile. Several bolts of sorcerous fire slammed into our formation, but our wards deflected the worst of it, though several of my men began screaming piteously. Von Warburg retaliated, issuing a bolt of golden lightning from the point of his lance into the mass, flinging bodies and pieces of bodies high into the air.

I whispered under my breath, "Lady, guide my hand," as I aligned my lance with the head of a particularly large rioter, and then, as one, the whole chapter screamed, "SIGMAAAAR!"

Half a second later, the wedge impacted the crowd. Like a demigryph trampling tallgrass on the March, the chapter broke through the first eight ranks of the rioters in seconds, cleaving a massive bloody swath towards the evil blue light at is center. I dropped the broken lance, and Arielle flashed into my hand.

A group of apparently human rioters on my left resolved into a pack of pink horrors. I leveled Arielle at them, squeezing both triggers simultaneously. The Striker flared brightly, its magic adjusting my aim slightly and steadying my hand the instant before the firing pin struck the primer, and then absorbing most of the gun's hideous recoil. The massive rifle bullets, imbued with the power of the Banisher, exploded amid the horrors, destroying several. I opened the breech, ejecting the spent casings, and reached into a saddlebag, extracting two more brass-jacketed cartridges. I slammed them into the barrels, and snapped the weapon back together. I brought it back up just in time to fire a round into the face of a half-daemonic rioter with a halberd that threatened to kill my mount. The second bullet I fired into a Screamer that suddenly swept into the air from the center of the riot. As the daemon disintegrated, I reloaded and fired off another pair of rounds, felling a Flamer.

I dropped Arielle into a saddlebag, and switched to my sword. What I wouldn't give for a real longsword, or even a Bretonnian sidearm. Rapiers were shit from horseback. I dropped back slightly, into the center of my men, and after a moment's consideration, realized that our formation was about to break. "We're slowing down, Fritz! I don't like that! Slow is dead."

"Aye, sir! We've run into some stiff resistance on the right. We're starting to wheel in that direction, away from the center," the sergeant said as he hacked down at a rioter. He got to carry a longsword.

"Unacceptable. Get them moving. Straight towards that terrifying blue light."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

"Don't call me that!" I said as I rode off to join von Warburg at the head of the group

"We're slowing down, Herr Templar. We'll be slaughtered if we don't get moving again," he said, leaning nearly out of his saddle to banish a daemon with his massive hammer.

"Already taken care of, Father. There was some foolishness on the right," I said, blasting another Flamer with Arielle. Each of her runes, the Striker, the Banisher, and the Bulwark glowed brightly, red, blue, and gold, the ancient and angry rune magic struggling to come to grips with their hated foe, seething all around them.

Before the plate-armored priest could respond, the horsemen behind us suddenly came abreast, and we spurred our horses on. I ditched Arielle again, and drew my sword, parrying and deflecting what felt like hundreds of blows. I had little time to strike, but my horse crushed dozens of unfortunate rioters and even a few minor daemons under her warded shoes.

Within minutes, we had crossed the final four ranks of protestors, and found ourselves in a clearing at the very center of the plaza, where the sickly blue light was almost blinding, and yet somehow illuminated nothing. The twelve or so surviving Templars and men-at-arms hesitated briefly. It was all their sorcerer needed. He (or maybe it was a she; fuck knows with the Changer), sent a forked bolt of profane energy into the company, felling the horses in front, including my own.

I was thrown from my horse, and heard Fritz shout, "Erich!" I flew in a flat, high-speed arc and I will swear that I flew directly over the heresiarch's head. I landed about fifty feet from where my horse had fallen, slamming into the uneven cobbles of the plaza. My wards absorbed some of the force. Not enough. I tried to move, but could barely stir. I struggled harder, but nothing. Behind me, I could hear my men being slaughtered and struggled harder, still to no avail. I strained harder, but only managed to collapse with a sob, and then felt unconsciousness threaten darkly at the corners of my vision. I fought it, but soon my vision was flickering, flickering, flick…

I awoke with a gasp-

Title note: 'Die Ausländer' is German for 'The Foreigners.'