Witch Hunter
The crack of a pistol cut through the night air like a well-oiled blade. The musket ball missed his face by mere inches, smashing into the wooden boards of the wall and sending splinters flying into his face. The man ducked, in case of a second shot, but kept running. He had to get away, had to get out of range of that damnable pistol. The mocking laughter of its owner pursued him as he ran, belittling his efforts to stay out of sight. "How much longer will you run, heretic?" shouted his pursuer. The man felt like weeping. "I am no heretic!" he screamed over his shoulder. "So you say, heretic, but your home is decorated with signs of Chaos! The Empire will be purged of your heresy, and you will know agony unending as we tear the blasphemy from your body! Through fire and pain, you will be cleansed!"
The man tripped just then, having paid too much attention to his pursuer's words rather than the ground in front of him. Shouting in frustration, the man jumped up again, only to discover his foot was broken. As he set his weight on his right foot, it gave out underneath him. He fell once again, vision swimming from the pain. The man began to crawl, pulling himself pitifully through the dirt and away from the voice of his pursuer. The sounds of his enemy began to fade, and for a moment, the man felt hopeful that he might escape death. He reached out to grab his next handhold when a boot stamped down on his spine, hard.
"Where d'ye think to be fleeing, manling?" asked a rough, low voice. The owner of the voice hauled him up to his knees. In the darkness the man could not see the speaker's features, but the man knew that he was facing a dwarf. "Damned fool witch hunter" muttered the irate dwarf. Dragging the man like a sack of potatoes, the dwarf walked back to trail where the man had crawled from and shouted "Ye stupid Sigmar-loving witch-hunting mutant-killing manling! Ah've got yer thrice-bedamned heretic!" The dwarf continued to shout insults as he walked, still dragging the man. Agony coursed through his leg as his broken foot bounced from rock to rock.
The man reached for his last resort, a small, concealed pistol tucked in his right boot. It was agony extracting it from his boot, well made and tight fitting as his boots were. Taking hold of the pistol, the man aimed at the back of the dwarf's head and cocked the pistol. The dwarf was making so much noise he doubted that he had heard. Just then he heard a twang! and felt an explosion of pain in his wrist. The man dropped the gun, mewling like a kitten. "While I'm sure it would have been amusing to watch Hamak tear you limb from limb for trying to shoot him, there was the slightest chance you might have actually hurt him. That can't be allowed, friend."
The dwarf turned, eyeing the man and the arrow through his right wrist. "Why, ye no good snotling-fondler! I do ye the favor of dragging ye back to me friend so at least ye can face your fate like a man, not a child, and ye repay me with a bullet! A shoddily made human weapon, not to doubt." grumbled the irate dwarf. "Not to doubt" came the amused voice of the archer. A short, wiry man stepped out of the trees and picked up the pistol. In his other hand he held a short, compact bow unlike anything the man had ever seen in the Empire. The man had two arrows clutched tight to the bow. The man wondered momentarily if the archer had fired his bow while holding the arrows there.
Then his fear returned, doubled, knowing he was caught, knowing he was dead. The man wanted to plead with his captors, to beg them to release him, but he knew they would not. He was honestly surprised the archer had not shot to kill, then he reconsidered. The witch hunter obviously wanted him badly. The man twisted, looking for an escape, a way out, anything. He didn't have the time to take any opportunity, though. The measured, careful steps of the witch hunter's booted heels had drawn close. Too close. A hand reached down and grabbed his chin. The man was forced to look into the witch hunter's eyes.
The witch hunter was dressed in all black. His clothes were of plain cut, but fine make. The only ornamentation he wore was a silver hammer around his neck, the sign of Sigmar, patron diety of the Empire. Silvered buttons fastened his doublet, and dulled silver glinted at the buckles of his boots. The cuffs of his wrists were black but lined with red around the buttons that held them closed. A pair of pistols, made with a dark cherry wood, the man thought, hung at his hips. The sheath at the witch hunter's hip was empty. It looked to be made of black leather.
It was the witch hunter's sword that caught the man's full attention, however. A long, thin blade with a single blood channel was held in the witch hunter's right hand. The glittering silver blade was covered in blood from the tip to the hilt. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, and the base of the hilt was a small version of the hammer necklace that hung from the witch hunter's neck. The blood was fresh, and its copper scent filled the man's nostrils as he breathed. The witch hunter noticed his look and began to laugh.
"Your friends, heretic. They have been purified. Yet you remain alive. Why do you think that is?" The man stared mutely back at the witch hunter, stunned that he was not yet dead. The witch hunter shook his head. "You will not survive this, heretic, but I need you to answer a question for me. Your friends were reticent on the matter, and they were long in dying. I will make your death quick, if you would oblige me." Pale green eyes scanned his own, entrapping him in a web of despair. The man snuffled. "I will try to help you." The witch hunter's expression didn't change, but the man could detect in his visage a hint of triumph.
"Wisely spoken, heretic. Now answer me this. Six weeks ago, a man passed through your town. He probably didn't give you his name, but being inquisitive and distrustful of outsiders, I daresay you searched his possessions while he was staying in your town. You found, among his belongings, a rather unusual staff and a book. He was a heretic, you knew, but he was not of your order. You worship the Undivided, do you not?" The man nodded. "I need to know where he went, heretic. I know that you know both his route and his destination, having helped him plan it once you learned of his true allegiance."
The man swallowed nervously. "I-I can't help you, witch hunter. I wasn't the one who did the planning. I just helped him pack." The witch hunter sighed. "I may hate Chaos body and soul, heretic, but I truly hate liars. Hamak." The man licked his lips, wondering if he had gotten out of it for a moment, when the dwarf spun him around and kicked him full in the face. The man crashed back to the ground, groaning. He could feel his teeth, some of which were missing, all of which were loose. The dwarf hauled him up again, this time to punch him in the kidneys. Two, three, four hits, and a final fifth to the base of his spine sent the heretic face first into the dirt. Moaning in pain, the man tried to crawl away.
The dwarf picked him up, but this time left him standing as he backed up. "If your pain tolerance is so high, heretic, I will happily oblige Hamak and burn an answer out of you. I sincerely doubt he is very happy with you. You tried to kill him, and if not for Garret here, he might be dead. Is this truly necessary? Can you not be the one smart heretic amongst the coven?" The man coughed, looked up at the witch hunter, and nodded. "Good. Now, where is Matthias von Draken?" The man looked up. Then his eyes bulged, and pain tore through his entire body like a thousand knives. The man let out a hideous, choking cry, his throat blistering and eyes popping from the pressure of the dark sorcery coursing through his body.
The man began to speak, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth. "Silen Hammersmark!" he spat at the witch hunter. The witch hunter, barely able to understand the man's twisted speech, gave a grim smile in return. "Are you done running yet, Matthias?" The man could no longer see, could not control his own tongue as the potent sorcery pushed the words from his broken throat, but he could feel the presence of the sorcerer, a dark, powerful cloud in the back of his mind. "Witch hunter, when I am done running, you and all your foolish friends will lie as dead as your temple. You fail, over and over again, witch hunter, and you will continue to do so! You do not understand what you trifle in. The song had been sung. The Brethren gather, and before that storm, you will fall, as so many of your fellows already have."
The witch hunter's grin widened. "No storm can overwhelm the light of Sigmar, heretic. You will burn, as so many of your fellows already have. My brothers give their lives gladly, going to the side of their god. Where, I wonder, do your Brethren go when they die? To hell? Or into oblivion? Remember, Matthias, I know what you are. I have put down enough of your so-called brethren to know what happens to you when the last light of life leaves those rotting husks. Who would have thought that a vampire would find it in him to worship Chaos?"
"You push into matters best left alone, witch hunter. For once, show some common sense. Turn from this course and go back to your temple. Oh, wait." Von Draken's voice paused. Bubbling laughter issued from the man's chest, rolling in great, mocking waves towards the witch hunter. "You have no temple!" With a snarl, the witch hunter lashed out, blindingly fast, with his sword. The silver blade took the man's head from his shoulders, though the man had no eyes to see it from. The laughter was cut short, as though the speaker had been strangled mid-sentence.
Silen stood, regarding his dripping blade and the body of the dead heretic. He hadn't even bothered to learn the man's name. For some reason, that bothered him. As a younger man, he had always cast the names of heretics he killed up to Sigmar, asking that they be forgiven. No longer. Ever since the burning of his temple, he had felt cut off from his god, as though Sigmar was withholding his favor. Silen could guess why easily enough.
Four years ago, as he prayed before the altar of his god, a man had burst into the temple, screaming in tongues unfathomable and pursued by the city guard. A mob at his heels, the man fell to his knees at the altar and begged him to save him. The people were attacking him, maddened by some spell. The witch hunter had risen, turning to face the mob. At its head was the town mayor, followed by a rather large contingent of the city guard. No temple, however, was without its own guardians. From the shadows had stepped the warrior priests, wielding their hammers, and held the mob at bay.
The man who had run into the temple lay sobbing at the steps of the altar while the mayor denounced him as a sorcerer and heretic. The temple, as it usually did, found the man guilty, his description matching that of a known Chaos sorcerer. The man was burned at the stake, but as he died, he began to change. At first, Silen had thought it was the sign of Tzeentch, Changer of Ways, but such was not the case. The man, in death, had reverted to his former self-the mayor of the city. Furious, the witch hunter and the warrior priests attacked the mayor, who revealed himself as the true sorcerer. The priests had all been killed and Silen himself was left for dead in the burning temple of his god, surviving only because a dwarf had pulled him from the flames.
The sorcerer had fled, but as he did so, he set fire to the city. Faulkman's Crossing had once been a small, backwoods town, but had lately grown into a small city, thanks to increased trade up the river that ran parallel with the town. The temple had been built less than five years ago, by Silen and his former master, Otto von Rauven. Otto had died just a few months before, taken not by the sword, but by the pox. The people of Faulkman's Crossing had genuinely mourned his passing. He had been a witch hunter, but was widely regarded as a fair and honest man, atypical of so many of the priesthood these days.
Silen shook his head, trying to be rid of the memories of his greatest failure and focus on the present. He glanced at his companions. Hamak Kadriksson was as unreadable as a stone wall, his rough face unemotional as he surveyed the landscape. Dark eyes glinted within the deep crags of his face, shadowed by bushy eyebrows. Tattoos covered the dwarf's entire muscular frame, mostly in black ink. A massive spike of red hair jutted from his head like a speartip. The dwarf was a Slayer, and though Silen had a good idea of why, he had never pressed the dwarf.
It had been Hamak who had pulled him from the fire of the temple four years ago, and the dwarf had asked to accompany him on his quest. In hopes of achieving a mighty death, proclaimed the dwarf, though in truth, the dwarf had no intention of dying on this chase. He wanted von Draken dead for his own reasons, which he did not share with Silen.
Silen then turned his gaze upon Garret. Garret stood stock-still, compact bow in one hand, the other near the quiver on his hip. Looking at him, one would think Garret a woodsman from Nordland, or perhaps Kislev. Dark forester's clothes and boots made it hard to pick him out on a good day, and with the coming darkness, he was near invisible. Silen, however, knew better. Garret was one of the best assassins of Altdorf, a man who had come to fame under many names and signature styles. Garret had never left Altdorf until he had met Silen, and he likely never would have.
Actually, he had not met Silen, he had been contracted to kill him. By Matthias von Draken, no less. Garret had been hired to kill him for five hundred gold coins, one of his most lucrative contracts yet. However, when he found out his target was a witch hunter, he had instead told Silen of the contract. He had been blatantly honest about who he was and what he had to say, so Silen had made him a better offer. He offered Garret a thousand gold coins and his crimes forgiven if he would travel with Silen and help him kill von Draken. The assassin had agreed-not that he really had a choice-and for the last two years he had followed Silen on von Draken's trail.
Now here he was again, with no clues and no trail to follow, other than to continue east. The witch hunter was already in unfamiliar territory. In pursuit of the sorcerer, he had passed through Sylvania, the ancient realm of Strigos, and now back towards the Empire. At least these people still speak Riekspiel, thought the witch hunter. That way he could understand what they were saying as they burned.