Chapter 9: The Howling Doom

Ra-tat-tat-tat!

The window shuttles rattled, battered by the howling wind.

Lanric Schwart sneezed and shivered. Rubbing the bottom of his nose, he uttered "Should had returned to headquarters, collect my greatcoat and get more layers under this armor." The young watchman drew his cloak close, trying to stifle the cold, as he surveyed the room. Like any typical bachelor's apartment, it was filthy and cramped. The floor bore many stains and was littered with bottles reeking of weeks old stale ale. The ceilings were covered in cobwebs, each occupied by spiders the size of his nose. Lanric peered towards the rattling window, encrusted in thick brown stains, and beheld the very thick layer of dust upon its window sills and gnawed holes in its frames.

His eyes then fell onto the bed below the window. Its bedsheets were stained yellow, its blanket had more in common with moldy vellum than fabrics. Even from where he stood, Lanric could smell the oily, sweet-sour stench clinging onto the sheets.

The rusty stove, wedged into a corner directly at the foot of the bed, laid cold. The sack of charcoal, propped onto its side, was seemingly undisturbed.

Lanric scraped the steel skin of his helmet. He removed his arm and stared at his fingers and frowned. He sighed, took off his helmet, placed it on the table and resumed scratching his flaky scalp. The young, scarred watchman could feel unfriendly eyes upon into his back. Frowning, he turned to face the landlady.

The landlady, standing at the doorway, was a squat, unpleasant figure dressed in a sickly green dress. Her limbs were thick as tree trunks and her legs were bent, barely able to bear her girth. Her hair was tied up in a bun, revealing the rough and spotty skin upon her cheeks and forehead. Her cheeks were flabby and drooping, reminding Lanric of a cross between a mastiff and a toad.

"So..." said Lanric, "When did you last see Erich Kastner?" And just as he had expected, the landlady, Frau Valerie Bullenbeiser, answer with a harsh croak, "You tell me! Finding him is your business, not mine!" "I am a watchman," Lanric said slowly, "Not a wizard or a fortune teller. I can't simply divine the whereabouts of the tenant."

"Hmmph!" Valerie huffed, "Some watchman you are. I hope he is not dead. Last I saw him was two nights ago. Caught him sneaking behind my back trying to avoid paying his rent." The landlady walked up to Lanric and stabbed her stubby fingers into his chest as she listed, "Well, you find him, you drag him back here, you make him cough out the pences he owes me and you throw him out!"

"If you need anything, I will be sweeping the floor downstairs. Those little rats always leave a mess."

Lanric flinched slightly to the sound of the slamming door. He watched the door creaking pitifully and the squat silhouette trampling down the stairs. Scratching his head, he looked around and pondered, "What now?"

Lanric drew his baton and approached the window. He gagged, having caught a whiff of the foul odor clinging to the sheets below. Covering his nose, he leaned over the bed and poked at the window. The window creaked and groaned but it held against his rough treatment, neither falling off its frame nor shattering under his repeated poking and prodding. Lanric smiled, amused, "Just like Giselbert."

The youth then examined the door. The door was warped but otherwise undamaged. The lock, however, was shattered, its remains scattered on the corridor outside. Lanric wondered if he should had checked the lock for signs of tampering before breaking it. "Too late to fret over it now," he thought.

Lanric rifled through the drawers, sifting through the moth-eaten garments within. He paused. Hidden beneath the layers upon layers of stained and smelly clothes was a small, iron box. He fished out the box and placed it on the table. He ripped open its lid and was greeted by the stinging odor of weirdroot snuff.

Lanric sneezed for what seemed to be the sixtieth time that day. "Sigmar damn it," he swore while rubbing his nose, "Is Ulric getting impatient?" The wind howled fiercer, strong enough to uproot him from where he stood. Lanric, in his panic, cried out his plea for clemency to the God of Wolves, War and Winter. Seemingly appeased, the wind died down. Lanric straightened his helmet, adjusted his cloak, made the sign of Ulric and uttered an insincere 'thank you'.

Before the young watchman and wedged between an apartment and a row of shophouses was a dirty, narrow building. Its stairway and the grounds around it were littered with blank-eyed, slack-jawed weirdroot addicts and snoring drunks, all oblivious to the cold despite their tattered jackets and thin clothes. Hanging over them on a single rusty chain was a sign, bearing the image of a rampaging boar. The sign of The Drunk Boar.

With a shrug, Lanric uttered a prayer and performed Sigmar's sign, the sign of the hammer. As soon as he completed his prayer and his plea to the patron god of the Empire, a loud, panicked cry issued from the tavern. Lanric got over his surprise and quickly deduced what had happened. He leaped into action, dashing up the stairs and yanked open the door. He pushed through the crowd towards the bar counter, picking up a toppled stool along his path.

Standing before the bar counter was a man larger and older than he was. A strong set of limbs, a chiseled musculature, he had the very formidable look of a military man. However, his unfocused eyes and his thick, unkempt beard suggested madness.

The man, dressed in the trappings of a Salzenmund watchman, was screaming and shouting at the crowd, brandishing his bloodied sword, thrusting and swinging wildly as though trying to repel some unseen assailant.

"Get away from me, you fiends!"

Lanric could see three men lying at the watchman's feet, moaning and groaning as they clutched the gashes, cuts and severed stumps, trying to staunch their bleeding. Large, broad with nasty scars and gang tattoos on their shoulders. He knew they were members of one of the local gangs, and he could guess what had happened.

"Olaf," Lanric spoke softly as he approached the watchman. The mad watchman raised his sword and stood on his guard. As Lanric took a step forward, Olaf retreated. His face was a mask of terror. Olaf kept retreating until his ankles knocked against the bar counter. He frantically looked back and forth, at Lanric and his feet, his panic growing with each movement.

Lanric maintained a tight grip on his stool as he cautiously moved towards Olaf. "It's me, Lanric. Not any daemon, Lanric," he said gently. "Lanric, remember? Your...woah!" Lanric barely dodged the blade, sweeping from above. Swearing, Lanric swung his stool at Olaf's blade. The sword struck and bit deeply in its seat. Olaf, with a growl, tugged at his sword. He glanced at hs blade and tugged at it more frantically, and yet, it would not come loose. Lanric seized the opportunity, and with one sharp motion, yanked the weapon from the mad watchman's grip.

Without delay, Olaf lunged at Lanric and throttled him violently, the stool clattering at his feet. Lanric knew Olaf intended to choke the life out of him and unhesitatingly slammed his protected forehead into the watchman's helmet. Olaf lurched backwards with a grunt. Lanric wobbled on his feet, trying to regain his bearings. Seeing Olaf still disoriented, Lanric quickly lunged at him. He immobilized Olaf, removed his helmet and slapped him twice.

"Get ahold of yourself!"

Olaf blinked. He stared at Lanric with a confused look. "Lan...Lanric?" he asked slowly.

"What was I doing? Where did the daemons...oh..."

Olaf stared at the fallen thugs. He then looked at the pool of blood around them, and then at his sword, still stuck to the toppled stool. He realized that his gloves were stained with blood. He dabbed at his helmet and found his finger stained crimson. A realization dawned upon him, and he despaired.

"What had I done?"

Lanric shrugged, "Whatever they did, they probably deserved it."

Olaf slumped onto his seat and wept. He withered away from the accusing eyes of the patrons. He gazed into the fireplace, and Lanric could see a tear falling down his cheek. He shook his head. He glared at the crowd and, gestured at the fallen gangers and ordered forcefully, "Get these people to the Temple! Now!"

The crowd was shocked by the strength in his voice. Getting over their surprise, three of the beefier patrons dragged the gangers out of the door and, presumably, to the Temple. Lanric then glared at Jurgen, the pot-bellied and balding tavernmaster, who up till now was cowering under the bar counter.

"And get me a pint!" Lanric glanced at Olaf and corrected himself, "Ten pints!"

The excitement had abated and the patrons had returned to their usual habits. The more sober amongst them were gossiping amongst each other, though they do sneak glances at the bloodied sword, still stuck in the stool and lying before the bar counter, and the watchmen involved in the earlier spectacle. Both watchmen ignored them completely, having their own matters to attend to.

Jurgen slammed a tankard onto the counter, spilling some of the frothy beverages onto Lanric's face. Lanric glared a Jurgen fiercely. Jurgen simply grunted, looked away and attended to his kegs. Shaking his head, Lanric retrieved one of the tankards and approached the sullen war veteran. "Have a drink," said Lanric.

"Now, what are you doing here?"

Olaf stared at his legs. After a moment, he replied sullenly, "The witch hunter sent me." The tavern immediately fell silent. Lanric glanced around, and true enough, all eyes were on them. After a while, the patrons then started whispering amongst each other. Lanric could hear words such as 'heretic', 'witch', 'elves', 'burning' and such floating about in the air.

"Said you need backup," Olaf continued. "Told me to find you in this address or the nearby taverns. Thought you wouldn't be in the apartment so I came here instead."

Lanric swiped the small parchment held between Olaf's finger. He squinted as he read the thin, cursive handwriting upon it, and he found Erich's address on it. He wondered how she knew this address. It then dawned upon him that the witch hunter's retinue, that Tannenbaum lass, must had eavesdropped on him.

Still, he questioned her decision to send Olaf, of all watchmen, to assist him.

"So, are we done?" Olaf whimpered, glancing nervously at the staring patrons. "I think I would like to be far from here." "Olaf, I can't leave. This..." Lanric wore a dirty look as he looked around, "'respectable establishment' is my only lead." Lanric smiled gently as he patted Olaf's shoulder. "I think you need to go. Far away from all this filth. You could use the fresh air."

"Can't, Lanric," Olaf shrugged. "I already told her she can count on me for this assignment." Lanric planted his palm on his forehead and shook his head. "Damn that Fruehauf, sending a traumatized war veteran into a cesspit..."

Lanric snatched another tankard of ale and thrust at Olaf. "Well, bear with me. Give me a few moments and we will be on our way."

Olaf sipped on his second tankard of ale while looking into the fireplace, wearing a haunted look. Shrugging his shoulders, Lanric walked up to Jurgen. Jurgen, who was scrubbing the insides of the tankards, grunted, "Pay your bills and get out." He then looked at Olaf and added, "And take that mad dog with you."

"We will, but after we get our answers," Lanric smiled defiantly. "To hell with your questions, Lanric! You and that Gottschalk lad had brought nothing but trouble to my respectable establishment!" Jurgen barked. "'Respectable' establishment? After all that weirdroot you peddled?" Lanric retorted. Jurgen slammed the tankard onto the counter and growled, "Weirdroot ain't illegal, you dolt! Now get out or I throw you out!"

"Don't make threats you can't carry out, Jurgen," Lanric smirked. "And you ought to invest in real enforcers, not those weirdroot-addled idiots." Lanric gestured at Olaf, who was staring at the fireplace while sipping on his ale, "And my friend there is an even better fighter than the 'Gottschalk lad'. And when the blood is up, he does not hesitate to kill. You wouldn't want blood on your hands now, would you?"

Jurgen's cheeks flushed red. His eyes were almost popping out from his sockets. After a while, he rubbed his bald scalp and sighed, "Ask your questions and make it quick!" "I know you will see reason," Lanric grinned. "Alright. You probably heard about this already, but I am going to say it anyway. Erich Kastner, one of your customers. He disappeared two nights ago. Know anything about that?"

"Erich Kastner, eh?" Jurgen grumbled. "Yeah, I know him. Skinny lad, smells like dog droppings. Yeah, I know him. Did you say he disappeared?" Lanric nodded. "Damn it! He still haven't paid his tabs!" "Maybe that is why he disappeared?" Lanric postulated. "Quit accusing me! You know I don't pay thugs to rough up customers, I only pay them to get you boys off my back!"

Jurgen looked around before huncing over the counter and dropped his voice into a whisper, "Look, Erich is not the only person who disappeared. Last I heard, O' Albert over at 6th Laurelorn Street, Matilda over at 5th Franz Avenue and at least ten more had also disappeared. Apparently, they went away some place but they never went home!"

Lanric, surprised, exclaimed, "Wait, you said Erich's not the only person who has disappeared?" Jurgen nodded, "Aye, at least another dozen more. Look, if this gets you out of my tavern, I will give you names." "Why wasn't all these reported?" demanded the watchman. "With that captain and the witch hunter, who would?" Jurgen shrugged.

"You knew the witch hunter set up shop in the headquarters?"

"Why wouldn't I? The patrons wouldn't shut up about it!" Jurgen swung his arms and gestured at his customers. "'So and so must be a witch!', 'The town's going to burn!', 'It's the elves' fault!'."

"Never shut up about it! It's either that, or they are wondering why the Watch and Gausser's boys aren't doing anything to protect them!" Lanric opened his mouth, then closed it again and lowered his gase. He realized he could not refute Olaf's accusations. Jurgen, realizing that Lanric was tongue-tied, wore a very large grin.

"Anyway..." Jurgen grin grew as he leaned closer, "Is it true what I heard? The witch hunter is a lass?" Lanric shot him a warning look as he replied, "She's an ice princess."

"I wouldn't touch her if I were you. I still rather like my knees."

It was already late evening when Lanric had finished interviewing an old man about the disappearance of his neighbours. The old man bowed low as he shut the door. Lanric raised his lantern to illuminate his notebook and frowned. It occurred to him that he had frowned very frequently recently, and it didn't take him long to know why. The murder of Ludwig Bachmeier, the Flagellant Riots, the Backalley Massacres, the skaven encounter and the witch hunt. This was just the next in the string of misfortunes befalling Salzenmund.

The first disappearance in record occurred one week before the murder of Ludwig Bachmeier, and all subsequent disappearances were confined within the limits of the Slums District. Beggars, gamblers, drunks, the sorts of people nobody would miss. This would explain why the Watch remained ignorant of this incident for as long as it did. He had a list of addresses and a few notes marking the last known location of each victim. He believed he should bring this information back to the headquarters and have all these addresses and locations marked on the map. Perhaps it might shed light on what was happening.

Lanric closed his notebook and clasped it to his belt. A sack of powdered bones and unwanted rolled onto his feet, followed by the pitter-patter of small feet. Lanric picked up the 'ball' and smiled at the guttersnipes. "It's getting late," he said as he shoved the 'ball' into one of their waiting arms. "You wouldn't want to worry your parents!" "Thanks, guv'ner!" yelled the children as they waved him goodbye.

"Really popular with the children, aren't you?" mewled Olaf. "Wished the children would play with me." "Once you get your nerves back, you too can be popular with the children," said Lanric. "No guarantees though. Even after so long, the children are still scared of Giselbert. Let's go. It's getting late."

What Lanric said was neither a hyperbole nor a figure of speech. He could scarcely see the setting sun amidst the thick, billowing clouds. This, along with the increasingly frigid winds, made him expectant of an early winter. The watchmen quickened their pace, not wanting to be caught in a possible blizzard once night fell.

"Do you think this might have anything to do with the heresy the witch hunter's talking about?" said Olaf. "Definitely," Lanric replied. "If my patrols have taught me anything, it is that there are no coincidences. And I believe even Fruehauf will agree." "Lanric, you kept calling her 'Fruehauf', 'Fruehauf'. Do you dislike her?" Olaf asked softly. "Of course I do. She's a witch hunter and witch hunters are trouble. Nothing good ever comes out from them. Besides, she forced you to come to this pit. She should have known your nerves couldn't take it."

Olaf suddenly paused. Lanric, arching his brow, turned to look at him quizzically. Olaf's left eye was twitching as he spoke, "I wished you would stop talking about my nerves."

"And you are wrong about Frau Fruehauf. I wanted this assignment!"

"What?" Lanric gaped. "What are you...what did you do that for?" "Frau Fruehauf said she needed someone with the most combat experience. I am he!" Olaf half-shouted as he jabbed his thumb into his chest. "And one look at me and she decided to send someone else! I told her I could handle the pressure! I practically begged her to give me this assignment!"

"I can't just sit in the headquarters or take the most quiet patrol forever. I am a man, for Sigmar's sake! I can't let my problems control my life!"

"By Sigmar, you are mad!" Lanric exclaimed. "Mad! Why am I always partnered with madmen?"

"You, Emmanuel and I, we are all going to talk once we return to the headquarters!"

"Hey, Olaf! Are you listening?"

Olaf was still, staring. Lanric followed his gaze and peered into the alleyway. He tensed, sweat welling in his helmet, as he beheld movement in the shadows. The watchmen drew their swords and braced themselves for a possible attack.

The two watchmen stared into the darkness. Nothing stared back. With a sigh of relief, Lanric lowered his sword. "Heh, must be a cat," he said aloud. "No way could there be heretics here. This isn't even the loneliest...HEY!"

Lanric stumbled. He spun towards Olaf, about to reprimand his senior when blood sprayed onto his cheeks. A cowled figure slumped onto the ground below him, his abdomen split, his dagger, the thin, serrated, wicked thing, clattered upon the cobblestone.

Olaf shoved him aside and thrust his sword forward, skewering another cultist in the throat. The cultist gurgled, clutching his neck, before crumpling onto the ground.

Olaf pushed Lanric into the alleyway behind him as he swung at another heretic. The heretic leaped back and disappeared into the darkness surrounding them. "Run, Alaric!" Olaf shouted. "Run! I will hold the daemons back!"

"Olaf! What in the blazes are you..." protested Lanric as he was shoved back. "Run already, little brother!" Olaf yelled his reply. "Before the daemons get you!"

Lanric held his tongue. It was no use, Olaf was gone. Again, he was reliving the tragedies from those dark days during the Storm of Chaos.

"Come at me, daemons!" Olaf challenged the cultists as he brandished his sword wildly. The cultists flitted about in the darkness, striking him in his apparent blind spots and retreating before he could mount a counterattack. Lanric could count twenty of these cultists, but the number of pitter-patters within the darkness told him there were more. Defeating all of them was an impossibility.

"Olaf! We must retreat!" Lanric pleaded. "Just go!" Olaf shouted. "I will hold them here! You must escape, Alaric! I am not going to lose you again!"

Lanric clenched his teeth. His words were not reaching him. "Olaf! I will come back with reinforcements!" he shouted. "You better stay alive, you hear?"

The clip-clopping upon the roof-tiles told Lanric that Olaf had fallen. He knew that his doom was now hounding his footsteps. He prayed to Sigmar for deliverance, but he knew his survival was quite unlikely. He unclasped his notebook, scribbled into one of its pages and discarded the stationery into a pile of garbage along the walls. He then toppled the trash, in an attempt to block the heretics' path.

Lanric swung his sword upwards, running his blade across a pouncing cultist's abdomen, splitting him in half. Another cultist landing in front of him and raised his wicked sword high. The watchman swung his lantern at the blade, throwing off its balance, and ran his sword through his torso.

More footsteps approached, from the back, from the sides, from above. Lanric ran, slashing at another heretic who stood in his way. The heretic blocked the blow but was thrown off his feet by the force of the strike. The watchman kept running; slaying the heretic never occurred to him.

The watchman knew this length of alleyways, having taken them so many times during his patrols. He knew the shortest path to the main street separating the Slums from the Market District. The dim lights over the rooftops told him he was in the right track. He took a left, toppling another pile of refuse along the way. He then took a left and he could see the dim lantern-lights ahead.

The watchman panted. His breathing was growing heavy. "Just a little more," he thought. "Just a little more!"

He stopped in his tracks and wailed in despair. Three cultists, armed with wicked swords, axes and knives, had landed before him and were blocking his path. Lanric spun around, having decided on an alternate path, only to find himself flanked. He was trapped!

Like vultures, the cultists gathered around him, on the rooftops, in the alleyways. They laughed cruelly as they closed in onto him. Lanric ground his teeth as he assumed his guard. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar for strength, having resolved to slay as many of the vile snakes as he could.

"Come, heretics," Lanric challenged. The heretics lunged at him, from his left, his right and from above. Lanric swept his blade upwards, cleaving a pouncing cultist in the gut.

Blades clashed, blood was spilled. And yet no one could hear Lanric's valiant stand; the spectacle obscured by the falling snow; the sound of battle drowned by the howling wind.