Author's Note: Sorry for the very late update. Writer's block and heavy workload.
Chapter 13: Iron Gauntlet
Within a poorly-lit and sterile basement, illuminated by flickering candlelights, the scrawny Doktor Koch described his work to an apparently unresponsive Frau Fruehauf. The physician was motioning on an amputated arm, sawn off the broiled carcass of Giovanni Giuseppe, the late Khainite cult leader.
With gloved hands, he pointed at the sliced section of the stump. The bones were cracked and charred and there were ringed layers emanating from the crumbled major blood vessels. Cracks lined the flaky flash, and the dried out skin was peeling off.
"At first glance," said Doktor Koch, "it would appear that the victim was incinerated. However, as you can see from this cross-section, he was burnt from the inside out."
The physician then further clarified, despite the lack of befuddlement exhibited by the witch hunter. "Observing these rings, the greatest burns are from the tissues closest to his major blood vessels. I conclude his blood being the source of heat."
He shook the amputated limb, and the stump dripped charcoal-like chunks.
"However, I determined that this is not the cause of death. Looking at the distribution of the burn marks, it seems that his blood did not spontaneously boil over. Instead, I would think, it took perhaps five minutes for whatever killed him to leave his cadaver in this manner. Taking into consideration of your observation, the cracks in the flesh and the bone, the rupturing of his organs, as well as the lack of swelling in his respiratory organs, I say the cause of death is shock or total organ failure."
The witch hunter then looked towards the uncovered, mutilated body of Giovanni Giuseppe. The stab wounds on sides rib were still present. His right shoulder was completely mangled, cauterised with bone fragments jutting out. His eyes were shut, sealed by a glistening layer that stained his eyelids.
Doktor Koch noted her curiosity and answered, "His eyeballs burst. Presumably from the heat. This is consistent with the state of his organs, especially his stomach and intestine."
"You see, milady, the human body consists of at least sixty percent fluids. Blood included of course. However, it's not all blood; the flesh itself contains no small amount of liquids, the source of the dripping juice from grilled meat."
The witch hunter twitched very slightly, unnoticed by the enthusiastic physician.
"And let us not forget the urine in the bladder, the fluids in his eyes and the gastric juice. Now this baffles me. All of these had dried up, probably boiled off. There's not a single bit of moisture left! There is nothing in this world I know of which can kill him in this manner. The only possibility I could think of..."
The physician paused, as realisation dawned in his eyes.
"This is sorcerous work, isn't it?"
The witch hunter did not answer. Doktor Koch looked at her intently, seeking a response, and found none. With a sigh, he placed the arm right below the stump from where it was severed. He was sure of it. There was something occult about the whole thing. She usually keeps mum on the subject of blasphemous sorceries. That habit of hers hasn't changed, not even the slightest.
"Anything else to note?" inquired the witch hunter.
Doktor Koch blinked and regarded the corpse of Giovanni Giuseppe for a moment.
"Right," the physician snapped his finger. "How forgetful of me."
He turned the amputated limb around, so that the witch hunter could see the open palm. He gently peeled the index finger and thumb apart. "Scorpion-tail tattoo right here," he said, pointing at the almost unnoticeable mark. "Also," he flipped the limb over to expose the back of the hand, which was covered in strange words with slicing strokes, arranged in circles, "No idea what this is. Give me a headache whenever I look at it. Seems to be carved into his skin with a scalpel."
Doktor Koch flipped the hand around and pointed at the wrist, "This cut here? Not recent. Scarred over. Reached his artery. I imagine he bled heavily from this cut, but I doubt this contributes to his death, in any way."
"So, are we moving on to the sacrificial victims now?"
"I had seen enough of them," replied the witch hunter. "You haven't seen this one," said Doktor Koch, pointing towards one of the operating tables. "Lanric Schwart. I know him. Terrible way to die. He's a good lad, even if he's friends with that harassing bastard."
He turned towards the witch hunter, "Remember what I said about protruding ribs and how it looked as though they were wrenched out? Well, he is fortunate, or his suffering would had magnified. His ribs were already…"
"...Broken beforehand."
Doktor Koch blinked.
The witch hunter's words carried a hint of remorse.
Fruehauf hung her head and exhaled. She allowed the silence to settle for a moment before continuing, "I was there to witness it."
"I see," replied Doktor Koch, not knowing what else to say. A morose air filled the morgue.
It was a gloomy afternoon and there air was thick with dismay. The streets were mostly empty, save for the overworked street-sweepers, their shovels grey and black. Fleet-footed messengers, dressed in the colors of the Nordland Provincial Army hurried to-and-fro, bearing messages to the officers and the Chamberlain, perched atop the spires of Gausser Keep, and sorrowful news to the widows.
One such messenger narrowly avoided collision into the diminutive witch hunter, who was perusing a letter at the time. The messenger barely stopped to apologise as he continued his frantic pace towards the Town Hall.
Fruehauf watched the youth disappear down the misty street before turning towards her letter again. The letter's bold handwriting displayed a list of addresses. She pocketed the letter, stashing the small paper under her bandolier, as she turned to her left. She looked up and beheld the tarnished, worm-eaten plank, chained to a rusted beam, bearing the black carved sign of the Salzenmund Watch.
She stared at the mouldy door for a moment, unblinking, her hesitation unwitnessed along this deserted street. With a sigh, she walked up the loose stepping stones and pushed the door.
The clerk, Julius Schreiber grunted a greeting, his resentment unmasked. The witch hunter looked at him briefly and walked past his desk wordlessly, her head slightly bowed. She surveyed the almost deserted chamber, and then wordlessly read the small notice board on the wall right beside the doorway. On this small, framed blackboard was a list of watchmen, their names written in chalk, placed under a series of orders and errands. All these were conveyed a night ago and remained unerased. On this board, within a closed border on the bottom right, with the word 'Standby' underlined over it, were the names 'Hansel Aushwitz' and 'Emmanuel Marx'.
"Good afternoon, milady," a shrill voice, whom Fruehauf recognised as Hansel's, greeted. She peered about and then asked with a slight rasp, "Where is Herr Marx?"
"In the Temple of Shallya, I imagine," Hansel replied with a plastic smile. "So undisciplined. Shall I convey your displeasure to him personally?"
The witch hunter ignored him, favoring the map pinned on the wall instead. She picked up a quill, placed on the side, and drew red circles on a number of buildings, bringing the number of circles up to twenty. She then crossed out six of these circles and returned the quill to its inkwell.
Hansel observed the witch hunter doing her work. He glanced aside and, beaming, offered, "Would you like a cup coffee?" Fruehauf put down the quill. She glanced at the frothing kettle atop the sizzling stove, its bronze lid rattling, and said, "One cup, boiling, four sugar cubes."
"Four sugar cubes, milady?" the Lieutenant asked, with incredulity in his tone. "Four sugar cubes," repeated the witch hunter, with slight harshness, as she marched towards the Captain's Desk.
Fruehauf removed her leather-bound notebook and unclasped its cover. She spied the clay cup placed on the desk and turned towards the smiling Hansel. His smile faded somewhat as she dismissed him unfeelingly and returned to her notebook.
The notebook was tattered. The edges of the pages were frayed. There were smudges and other signs of moisture on the brown paper itself. Colored ribbons were glued and tucked between the pages, serving as bookmarks. The witch hunter flipped to the first blank page, dabbed the quill in the inkwell, stabbed the quill-tip into the pulpy surface and wrote in cursive:
'25 Kaldezeit, 2532 I.C.
0600, Watchman Corvin Kullermann reported success in locating suspect wagon (22 K 2532). Wagon discovered dismantled and incinerated, in abandoned lumber camp three miles east of the Salzenmund refugee camps.
Four feet wide cave found in nearby hillside. Preliminary exploration uncovered complex tunnel network, believed skaven in origin (refer to 'The Under-Salzenmund Report', 22 K 2532).
Watchman Corvin Kullermann requested permission to further investigate. Permission denied. Orders sent to disable tunnel and to search and destroy any other openings within the periphery of Salzenmund.'
Fruehauf picked up the mug of black beverage and gulped down its contents. She gagged and coughed suddenly, startling the two present souls. She held onto the gorget of her breastplate, coughing with weakening intensity, all the while ignoring Hansel's questioning look. Once her breathing calmed, she studied the map directly opposite her. She gazed at the black circles around the quadrangles evenly distributed on the map, one of which was circled around the almost square quadrangle with the sign of 'The Port Authorities Building' (a black anchor) hovering over it. She then stabbed the quill-tip into the aged paper once more:
'0800, Presented drafted plan of defense to General Hieronymus Augustus (24 K 2532). Once finalised, plans will be presented to the Town Council. Opposition anticipated.
1000, Doktor Hermann Koch completed autopsy of cadavers of sacrificial victims, including Watchman Lanric Schwart, and of cell leader Giovanni Giuseppe.
On the sacrificial victims: Protrusion of ribs, removal of hearts and drainage of blood reported. Mutilation marks correspond with artifacts recovered from under 'The Drunk Boar' (24 K 2532)
On Giovanni Giuseppe: Bodily fluids evaporated. Extensive cracks on skin and flesh, radiating from major blood vessels. Extensive burn-marks. Crumbled blood vessels. Organs ruptured. Eyeballs burst. Cause of death blood loss or total organ failure, likely both. Suspect sorcery.
Druhir rune circle carved into back of left palm. Suggest nature of spell being geas. Further supporting evidence required to form satisfactory conclusion.
On Watchmen Lanric Schwart and Olaf Bauer: Last activity, investigating alleged abductions within Slums District, suspected links to Cult of Khaine (23 K 2532). Loss of watchmen and their investigation results tragic and regrettable. Loss likely detrimental to overall effort. Scale of effect impossible to calculate.
Implications:
'Inner Circle Advisors' (23 K 2532) more experienced than anticipated. Warpstones likely catalyst for ritual magic, not spell foci as initially inferred. Interrogation of captive cultists ritual to take place on Hexenstag (1). Timing fortunate. Purpose and location of ritual still undetermined.
Cell leaders enchanted to self-terminate in event of capture. New finding, along with the hypothesised 'Infestation of Under-Salzenmund' (refer to 'The Under-Salzenmund Report', 24 K 2532) suggest planned insertion of irregular assets V and G into Khainite cells unfeasible (23 K 2532). More information supporting action required before proceeding.
On G: Doubts surfaced on suitability of asset for infiltration mission. Subject proved reckless and'
Fruehauf's quill paused momentarily before continuing:
'difficult to predict. Observed rebellious tendencies and conscientious behaviour. Predict defiance against orders calling for the execution of morally objectionable tasks and acting on dangerously limited information.
Asset G will be re-assigned auxiliary duties.'
Fruehauf put down her quill and retrieved the lukewarm cup of coffee. As she sipped upon the beverage, her eyes gazed upon one of the red circles on the map of Salzenmund opposite of her. She scanned through the map briefly, put down her cup of coffee and resumed writing:
'1300, irregular assets report discovery of 7 more heretical hideouts (23 K 2532, list included). 6 reportedly silent. Evidence suggest rival cells responsible for demise. Findings correlated with information extracted from captured cultists (24 K 2532). Hypothesised 'Khainite internal culling' (23 K 2532) proven.'
The witch hunter paused in her writing. She leaned back into the chair, cup of coffee in hand, and took several more sips. She placed the cup onto the desk and resumed her writing:
'Active and passive observation of cult activities, particularly around merchant ships St. Maurus, the Mannslieb and the Jewel of Lustria, revealed discrepancy between projected number of heretical lairs and number of operating cells. Suspect bulk of cult based in Under-Salzenmund, despite 'Infestation'. Purpose hypothesised to be for the 'trimming' of 'unfit' cells, keeping in line with known cult methodologies (refer to Brother-Captain Mathias Thulmann's 'Dissertations on the Cult of Khaine').
Circumstantial evidence suggest cooperation by Merchant Arnold Accum (23 K 2532). Identity of affiliates, if any, currently unknown. Watchman Johannes Eisenhower dispatched to study Salzenmund Merchant's Guild records. Information rescued from 'purging' and 'editing' very likely limited and incomplete (24 K 2532). Will know full extent of damage by evening.
Salzenmund Watch coordinating with local garrison over plans to intervene with tonight's raid (24 K 2532). Resentments over inaction expected to lessen. Impact on overall Khainite agenda predicted minimal. The Executioner will find no cause for alarm.'
Just as the witch hunter dipped the quill-tip into the inkwell, a herald representing the Town Council burst through the door, his dramatic entrance warned by rattling wheels and marching hooves. The Town Council Herald, dressed in thick robes of Nordland colors, trimmed in gold, with an emblem, that of a seemingly conjoined blue anchor and scale, emblazoned upon his torso, boomed, "Frau Fruehauf! The Town Council calls for your presence!"
Standing at both sides of the heavily doors, varnished and painted black, are two lean men in dark blue, with white stripes on the left flap of their leather jacks. These men, clean shaven, one of whom had a square jaw, are the guards of House Kirscheschlage. Though they look daunting, especially to the common-folk, closer examination suggested that neither of them had seen actual combat. Their face was fresh, their halberds were polished to mirror-shine and their uniform was impeccable. There's also a noticeable lack of grim hardness in their eyes.
The guards of House Kirscheschlage looked quite bored despite the bedlam occurring the behind closed doors. One of them even stifled a yawn, battling the drowsy malaise, a battle which he was clearly losing. These men had stood in this position for close to ten years now, and they were quite practiced in the nuances of being well-paid door guards.
The heated conflict behind them was an everyday occurrence, nothing out of the ordinary. They had listened to these quarrelsome politicians for hours upon hours at end, every day, and not even the sudden shrieks and the shattering of glass could quite faze them anymore. Once in awhile, the Nordland nobility themselves got involved in their disputes. Normally, they just stood there, wait for the storm pass over, and then witness the departure of the guild masters, land owners, merchant lords and other important people, Town Councilors all, from the premise, all grumbling and sometimes bruised.
Occasionally however, things do get out of control and they had to interfere, dragging the particular unruly petitioners, noblemen and politician and throwing them out of Town Hall via the front door, usually in full view of the public. It was nothing out of the ordinary.
Of course, they weren't quite sure if they could do the same to the day's 'special' guest.
The front gate of the Town Hall swung open and powdery snow blew into the building. Striding through this door was the rather haughty 'Voice of the Town Council', as he liked to call himself, and not even the witch hunter, who was silently stalking him like his shadow, seemed to shake his cocksure confidence. As they approached the door into the Council Chamber, one of the house-guards pulled them over with a firm voice, and a halt gesture.
"A moment, milady."
The witch hunter and the herald paused in their tracks. The herald, understanding that he had completed his role, took his leave, leaving the house-guards to deal with the inquisitor.
"The Burgomeister requests that you read this before entering," said the guard as he removed a neatly-sealed letter from under his leather jack.
The witch hunter picked the letter from his fingers and unsealed it. After scanning through it, she tucked the letter under her cloak. The two house-guards nodded at each other and shoved the door open. The witch hunter marched into the abyss that was the Council Chamber.
All bickering and politicking ceased as soon as the witch hunter made her entrance. She took her position on the Petitioner's Stand and swept her gaze across the chamber, identifying the dramatis personae of the day's proceedings.
Seated in the most obscured seat in the left corner of the Chamber, his heavy wool-and-fur robes a sombre shade of grey and brown, was Ulrich Graben. He tried his best to not look at her, his nervous composure enhanced by his sunken cheeks.
On one of the front seat was the effeminate land-owner Baldric Konig, dressed in padded, form-fitting doublet. He was slouching to his right, fingers covering his mouth, cheeks flushed, utterly silent, out of place amongst the murmuring noteworthy men. He was glaring at her, blue eyes bearing an intense glint.
Three seats to his left, his vest a garish, clashing mix of green and yellow, was the upstart firebrand of a merchant lord, Arnold Accum. He studied her briefly, his dark brown eyes hiding a shadow of a great, insatiable hunger. With a sneer, he looked away dismissively and attempted to engage in small talk with his neighbour, an elderly land-owner of little significance.
Herr Wolfgang Zimmermann, the bald master of the Nordland Silversmith's Guild and the spokesperson of the Council, peeked at her from behind a parchment held in his stubby, calloused fingers. He folded the document and tucked it into one of the many pockets of his red leather jacket.
And finally, the Burgomeister himself, a sharp-featured, well groomed man with neatly trimmed goatee, whose posture and gestures suggested dignity and confidence of a self-made man. Maximillian Von Kirscheschlage was expressionless. His fingers clasped as his calculating eyes watched her from behind his monocle, patiently waiting for events to unravel.
The witch hunter dropped into a curtsy, revealing the witch hunter's regalia under her cloak, as she spoke, her raspy voice firm.
"To what honor had I been summoned?"
Maximilian snuck a glance at Herr Wolfgang Zimmermann, who nodded in reply and rose from his seat. The broad man looked upon the witch hunter, his crinkles deepened as he frowned. He adjusted his glasses again and addressed to the lass before them.
"Sister Liese Fruehauf of the Holy Order of the Templars of Sigmar. I am Wolfgang Zimmermann, Guildmaster of the Nordland Silversmith's Guild and speaker of the Salzenmund Town Council. I, on behalf of our humble council, thank you for your attendance.
These are dark times, milady. Even now, we have refugees outside our walls, seeking asylum from the marauding barbarians, and their numbers grow each day. We understand that you and your Order have been busy, and for that, we are eternally grateful for your coming here during our time of need."
The Council Speaker carried on despite the increased grumblings.
"Grateful though we may be of your service to our humble town, it is with great regret that we called you here to answer for your recent transgressions..."
Baldric Konig stood up. Clearing his throat, he spoke with a shaky voice, obviously struggling to contain his tumultuous emotions threatening to spill out of his veil of dignity, "Thank you for your consideration, Herr Zimmermann, but I believe I can speak for myself." Herr Zimmermann furrowed his brow before he conceded to the councilor the privilege to speak.
The councilor swept his gaze at his fellow councilors before turning his attention to the witch hunter on the Petitioner's Stand. He straightened his posture and inhaled deeply. And without warning, he boomed with such violence he shocked even his neighbours, "Sister Fruehauf! You stand accused of arson of private property! How do you plead?"
The Town Council observed the witch hunter with the anticipation of slavering hounds as they waited for her response. She replied calmly, "I assume you speak of The Velvet Rose."
"Yes, The Velvet Rose!" bellowed the enraged councilor, with fierce gestures. "That establishment was built on my family's land, and it has been our land for over three generations! I demand recompense!"
"The Velvet Rose was found harboring heresy most foul," replied the witch hunter, unshaken. "The corruption has seeped deeply into its walls. I prescribed the only cure."
"On whose authority?" he demanded.
"Mine," replied the witch hunter coolly as she placed her left palm on her chest, bringing attention to the Seal of Sigmar between her bandolier and spaulder, which bore the image of the Ghal Maraz, with the words "Ad Iudica et Libera" below it, "As a Templar of Sigmar."
The councilor glared at the witch hunter, pursing his lips to suppress his dissatisfaction. "At the very least," he started, "you should have consulted me first! This IS my family's land! We have the right to know and to decide what happens in our land!"
"And allow the cultists time to escape?" asked the witch hunter coolly. "Is this, perhaps, your intention?"
The councilor slammed his fist against his table and pointed threateningly at the witch hunter, "You...YOU DARE?"
The Burgomeister Maximillian sighed as he laid his forehead between his thumb and index finger, "Sit down, Herr Konig."
Herr Konig, surprised, turned towards the Burgomeister and exasperated, "But Herr Burgomeister!"
"Sit down," repeated the Burgomeister firmly.
The trembling Baldric Konig scowled, as the snickering around him grew louder. He shot a glare at his fellow councilors as he returned to his seat.
"What a sad day it is," said his neighbour, Arnold Accum, venomously, "When a witch hunter could nilly nally waltz into our 'free' town and do as she pleases. It makes me wonder, are we truly 'free'?"
"The charter only permits the Council to rule in the Elector Count's stead, Herr Accum," said the witch hunter. "Clause No. 20, the town which holds this charter may rule by its own discretion, for as long as it fulfills its obligations of loyalty to the Elector Count and Emperor.
Clause No. 21, so as the holder of the charter fulfils its obligations of loyalty to the Elector Count and Emperor, so too will the Elector Count and Emperor fulfil His obligation as defenders of the town.
Nothing in the charter implied that the town has seceded from Imperial rule, and for as long as Salzenmund remains part of the Empire, it must abide by Imperial Law."
"And what of Marienburg?" sneered Arnold, the merchant lord. "It was once part of the Imperial sovereignty."
"Marienburg has purchased its independence with coin and contract," replied the witch hunter, without a change in expression, tone or gesture. "Salzenmund has made no such a transaction."
"We can always do that, you know."
"If you can."
"That is enough of that," interposed Maximilian, before the Town Council could erupt into an uproar, "The charter is not on the agenda of the day" He turned to the blacksmith beside him and requested, "Please continue, Herr Zimmermann."
"Thank you, Burgomeister," said the Council Speaker with a bow as he stood up. "We will now discuss your plans to defend Salzenmund. Unless I am mistaken," Herr Zimmermann adjusted his reading glasses as he glanced at the parchment in his hand, "You intend to commission the state troops to assist in the defense of our land and our people. Moreover, your plan involves evicting several respectable townspeople from their homes and workplace..."
Pandemonium descended upon the chamber as soon as the news was broken.
"What is this? We are letting Gausser's dogs dig further in?"
"Might as well beg him to revoke our charter!"
"Silence! Silence! Order in court!" bellowed Arnold Accum as he slammed against his desk. "We are not Norscans, my compatriots. Please be civilised."
Maximilian narrowed his eyes and he observed the upstart merchant lord. The merchant lord coughed lightly and spoke, "Milady, surely you understand what your actions meant. You are putting us under the Elector Count's thumb. The last time the Elector Count intervened, he has threatened to revoke our charter for our 'incompetence'."
"Oh," replied the witch hunter, sounding slightly amused. "Have you forgotten? Clause No. 21, so as the holder of the charter fulfils its obligations of loyalty to the Elector Count and Emperor, so too will the Elector Count and Emperor fulfil His obligation as defenders of the town. We are well within our rights to request military assistance from His Excellency Count Theoderic Gausser. Unless, of course, you have not been loyal?"
Arnold Accum stood up suddenly. He slammed his fist into his desk and argued, "Don't you dare accuse us of treason, witch hunter!"
"We have always been loyal. However, we still have an image to uphold. We can't allow ourselves to look weak..."
"If you can truly defend yourselves, Herr Accum," replied Fruehauf coolly, "However, looking at the state of the Salzenmund Watch, I doubt it. Or perhaps, you are generous enough to volunteer your house-guards to the defense of Salzenmund?"
Arnold pursed his lips for a moment before continuing, "And what of this eviction? We could always use the watchpost all around town..."
"Watchposts abandoned to sun and rain for over a decade, Herr Accum? Which do you trust to protect your home? A dilapidated shack manned by a pair of underpaid and underfed militiamen, or a fortress manned by twenty veterans?"
"That is quite enough, Herr Accum," sighed the Burgomeister. "Please, return to your seat. Do not disgrace your name and your office further."
Arnold Accum grounded his teeth as he looked at Maximilian, and then at the witch hunter. With a huff, he sank into his seat and brooded.
Herr Zimmermann glanced about. Satisfied that he was not going to be interrupted, he continued, "And you intend, if I read this right, to announce the enemy to our people. Is this wise?"
The council fell silent, unwilling to speak out of turn, yet still eager for the witch hunter's reply.
"Unlike the skaven problem, the townspeople are well aware of the heresy around them, and they are questioning the Council's ability to protect them. Even now, resentment and discontent boiled in their helpless hearts. If we keep our silence, they will see us as indifferent lords. I am certain the town cannot endure another riot.
However, give the enemy a face, and give the townspeople the means to strike back, and they will eagerly fall upon the enemy in defense of their homes, families and livelihood. Moreover, we will be seen as sincere protectors of this land. This is a desirable outcome, is it not?"
"True enough," replied Herr Zimmermann with a nod. He glanced at his parchment and continued, "I see here that you are concerned with our own security..."
"You will receive the details later today," interrupted the witch hunter. "I will answer to any inquiries and objections to my proposal at a later date."
Herr Zimmermann gazed at the witch hunter for a moment before putting down his parchment. "Fair enough, Sister Fruehauf. You may leave."
Burgomeister Maximilian Von Kirscheschlage sighed wearily as he closed the door behind him and placed his flat cap on the peg. He inhaled deeply, taking in the soothing scent of lavender which permeated his office.
His office was a cozy chamber on the uppermost floor of the Town Hall. Its walls, except for that spot on the right, were lined with bookshelves, all filled to the brim with well-read books. The framed Salzenmund Municipal Charter hung on display in the middle of the right wall, between the hardwood shelves and atop a mantle-piece. Beside his hardwood desk was a china tea set, imported from Cathay, and behind his seat was a multi-paned window, with a clear view of the Town Square.
The Burgomeister stood by the window, his hands behind him. Before the war, the view here was breathtaking year round. From spring to summer-time, one could see the open-air bazaar, where merchants from as far south as Araby (2) and as far east as Cathay (3) bargained with the townspeople of Salzenmund. During the autumn, he could catch a whiff of the aroma of roasted potatoes from the Harvest Market. And when winter came, it brought with it revelers and devouts, singing and drinking and laughing in celebration of the Mondstille Feast (4).
Those spectacular days were long over. The Town Square was as empty as a grave. It was a pity, he thought, that Liese will never behold the spectacle he once proudly presided.
"Such a pity, eh?" he said, smiling ruefully, as he regarded the aforementioned witch hunter, "To see the once vibrant Town Square reduced to such desolation."
The witch hunter, seated directly opposite of his desk, wordlessly leafed through a book's brown pages.
Maximilian sighed. He kept up his smile as he walked towards the kettle bubbling in his fireplace, "You held yourself well in the Council Chamber. It is good to see those bloated elitists knocked down a few pegs. They will learn not to judge a book by its cover."
The Burgomeister glanced at the witch hunter. The book held in her hand was titled 'The Poems of Detlef Sierck'.
"I see you retain a taste for Herr Sierck's works," said the Burgomeister as he scooped some dried tea leaves and dropped them into the teapot. "Especially his pre-Drachenfel works," he continued as he poured the boiling water. He closed the lid, turned over an hourglass and sat on his hardwood chair, waiting for the tea to steep. "Artistically composed, but no match for his post-Drachenfel works."
The witch hunter silently flipped a page.
The Burgomeister watched the witch hunter for a while, before turning his attention towards the hourglass. Seeing that the sand had ran out, stood up and retrieved a pair of teacups.
"His writing had improved dramatically since Drachenfels," he said as he placed a filled teacup on the tea table beside the witch hunter. "Quite staggeringly so, I might add. I wonder if he found his muse in that accursed castle."
His back sank into his chair rest as he sipped on his teacup, "I hope you aren't thinking of pursuing him after this is all over."
The witch hunter slammed the book shut, "If one of his antagonists comes to life and murders the audience, I will."
"You did not summon me to discuss literature, Herr Burgomeister Maximillian Von Kirscheschlage."
"Indeed, I didn't," sighed the Burgomeister as he set his teacup onto its tray. "I called you here to assuage my fears."
His countenance turned grim, "Be frank with me. How bad is it?"
"Twenty hideouts discovered, fourteen still active, each housing five to twenty members. We believe at least another thirty, at the minimum, remain undiscovered," replied Fruehauf matter-of-factly.
"By the worst estimate, we have about a thousand assassins, murderers and cutthroats blending in with our populace, assuming that the blockade holds. This is enough to fill a battalion," assessed the Burgomeister. "Do you believe we can survive this crisis?"
"Yes, but not unscathed," replied the witch hunter.
"I need not ask if any of my house guards are infiltrated," said Maximilian. "I already know the answer to that. Tell me, how do you intend to protect us?"
"We will assign two Greatswords to each councilor; or I will assign them a few of my mercenaries, numbers negotiable."
"You do realise they will oppose any arrangement that would make them seem powerless."
"I will convince them."
"I like to say I have nothing to worry about, but I will be lying," said the Burgomeister as he took another sip. "I will take up your offer of having two Greatswords by my side at all times, by the way. That is, if General Augustus allows it."
"There is a possibility that the charter will be revoked, Burgomeister," said the witch hunter as she sipped on her tea, "What will you do then?"
"So you are concerned," Maximilian chuckled. "And here I thought witch hunters are supposed to be a heartless lot. Fret not. I have other ways to support my family. Worse comes to worst, I can always consider Count Gausser's invitation into his circle of advisors. We will endure."
"You sounded resentful."
Maximilian sipped on his tea and sighed bitterly, "I am resentful, Little Liese. As you are well aware, my family were once Barons, before we were disgraced two generations ago. By the time I came of age, we were languishing in the squalors of the Slums District, having squandered the last of our family fortune on reliving past glories."
The Burgomeister pulled over the curtain and looked out onto the whitened Town Square. He took another sip and continued, "I regained everything, except my title, through honest labor. And yet, my success was, and still is, attributed to my non-existent 'noble connections'. Obviously, my opponents are helping things along. They could never accept that I got into my office legitimately, through the majority vote. You can imagine what will happen if I take up the elector count's offer."
"I am sorry to hear that," replied the witch hunter as she put down the teacup, her head slightly bowed, her eyes concealed by her hat.
"Do not worry," smiled the Burgomeister ruefully as he regarded his guess. "I will survive."
"You best return to work. It is getting late."
The witch hunter nodded as she placed "The Poems of Detlef Sierck" on the tea table. "Before you leave," said Maximilian, just as the witch hunter was about to leave. He picked up a book from his table and extended it to the witch hunter. Fruehauf looked upon its cover, and the title read, "My Travels With Gotrek Vol. 1 - By Felix Jaeger." "A gift," said the Burgomeister. "Do take some time off to read it. You will find it a rewarding diversion"
The witch hunter stared at the book. She bowed her head and said, with a hint of appreciation, as she received the gift, "Thank you."
The Burgomeister smiled warmly, "Please, watch your health. This is not going to be a one-week affair."
"Thank you, but you should be more concerned with yourself," replied the witch hunter, the book stolen into her cloak, with a severe tone. "There are traitors in your court."
"I will," smiled the Burgomeister reassuringly.
Doktor Koch strode down the length of Manaan St., recently cleared of snow, dressed in all black with a felt hat perched atop his balding head. Several pedestrian, mostly soldiers, snuck nervous glances, first at the heavy leather bag on his right, and then at him, as they passed him by. As he passed the fifth exit into the Slums District, he sighted a barreling wagon, and seated within it was the white-robed Mother Bertha. Mother Bertha was briefing the novitiates on the task awaiting them when she caught sight of him. With a wrinkled frown, she nodded at him, and he nodded back with grudging respect.
He took a right and entered an alleyway, which he found cluttered in debris. Some of the doors were smashed, and he passed a few smoldering ruins, charred beams stuck out like stiff fingers. He surmised that some of the beastmen must had broken ranks and broke into the shophouses to sate their savage urges. Whether the shophouses were burnt in an attempt to slay the mutants inside, or the buildings caught fire during the course of battle, only the soldiers, and perhaps, the peg-legged, one-armed tavernmaster, knew.
The stench of rotten fish and fruit assailed his nostrils as he passed a stack of crates and barrels, their openings fastened with oiled cloth thick and black. Standing before the door just a foot ahead, he raised his bony knuckles and knocked. In response, it swung inward and Doktor Koch found himself swallowed by an odorous mist which smelled strongly of fish viscera and dried blood.
A one-eyed bald man, with a square jaw, looked out of the portal warily. Recognising the visitor, his thin moustache curled upwards and he grinned a scurviness grin.
"Ey! It's the good Doktor!"
Doktor Koch looked down his thick, greasy arms and at his stubby fingers, dripping in fish guts. He frowned disapprovingly, "Will it kill you to wash your hands first, Matthias?"
"Three years and yer still cranky as ever, eh, Dok?" Matthias grinned grew wider as he wiped his hands against his sickly yellow apron. Doktor Koch's thin face contorted into a mask of disgust, "Three years? Don't be cute. We see each other every day in the Market District."
"Well, you haven't visited for three years now," said Matthias as he stepped behind the door, stretching his trunk-like arm into the kitchen of the Nordland XI, palm opened. "C'mander misses you."
"I seriously doubt that," grunted the skinny physician, taking off his hat as he stepped through the portal and onto the oily floorboards. "First time I was here, I had a sack over my head and the codger punched me with his prosthetic arm. The fellow who put metal studs on those wooden knuckles ought to be hung."
The physician surveyed the kitchen. His brow furrow and his lips contorted into a growling frown. "Never heard of hygiene, have you? I'm surprised your cooking hasn't killed anyone yet."
"Oh, please. If I were so poisonous a cook," said the chef Matthias as he slammed the door behind him, "C'mander would have sent me to the poorhouse years ago."
"Just wash your bloody hands in a basin or something. Now, where's this patient the Frau told me to see?"
Hat to his chest and with a heart uneasy, Doktor Koch exhaled as he gripped the knob and pushed the door open. Laid on the bed, backs against the wall, was the former watchman, and his bane for the past three years, Giselbert Gottschalk.
Giselbert Gottschalk looked at him, then his bag, and back at him again, each glance deepening the suspicious look in his dark brown eyes. He looked like he had lost weight. Three blisters, popped and dried, set against an angry red skin, glared from his right shrunken cheek.
Clearly, he caught the Pox.
However, unlike the Red Pox patients he treated during the height of the Ratmen Hysteria, Giselbert looked fit enough to throttle and throw him out of the window at a moment's notice, and Doktor Koch hadn't doubted that Giselbert would had done just that if he had reason to.
"Doktor Koch," said Giselbert, an uneasy greeting. "Herr Gottschalk," replied the Doktor as he closed the door behind him. He hung his hat on the peg beside the door. With a cursory glance at the patient, he could see the bandage, seeping with sickly green, wound untidily around his left arm. The physician looked to the bottle of draught at the foot of the bed and commented, "Mother Bertha got to you, didn't she?" he said.
"Yeah, what of it? Here to lecture me about misplacing my trust in superstition rather than science?"
Doktor Koch shrugged.
The physician walked over to the table. As he dragged the chair towards the bedside, he saw the papers spread messily all over the table, some of which had sketches on them, others with names and attached details, dossiers. "I see you hadn't been sleeping," the physician commented as he dropped his bag and unfastened it. "Try sleeping with all the racket downstairs," Giselbert grunted. "Rifling through your host's papers, more like," Doktor Koch scoffed as he sat down, silver scissors in hand. "You are always the impolite busybody."
"So you figure. What, you are under her payroll?"
"Stop being so belligerent," Doktor Koch complained. "I did you a favor, you know. If I hadn't faked that report, you would still be rotting in your cell."
"Doesn't excuse anything, Doktor," growled the former watchman. "I know you are hiding something, like, say, the serial killings three years ago."
Doktor Koch snapped, "I hid nothing!"
Giselbert Gottschalk smirked, "You are a terrible liar."
The physician and the watchman glared at each other. Eventually, the physician yielded. Sighing heavily and rubbing the back of his head, Doktor Koch exhaled, "Look, the past is past and the present is present. Do you want to get better or not?"
"Don't know why she's wasting her time getting you to see me," grumbled Giselbert as he sat upright, feet on the floor, looking towards the door while holding out his left arm. "I am fit as a fiddle."
"Matthias said otherwise," said Doktor Koch as he retrieved a large pair of scissors and snipped at the bandage. "Said you looked like salted cod when you were dragged in through his kitchen."
"He is exaggerating."
"With Bismark and the Frau saying the same thing? I doubt that," Doktor Koch said while cutting open the bandage. As soon as he exposed the wound underneath, he was assailed by the stingingly sour stench. "By Verena, have you not changed your dressings at all? And what did you do? Threw a left hook?"
Giselbert grunted like a naughty child.
"So, what news from the outside?"
"Do I look like a tavernmaster to you?" Doktor Koch replied in annoyance as he lanced the blisters.
"Herr Bismarck doesn't look like he ever leaves the tavern, and the chef has never come upstairs."
The physician rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily, "Fine. I will humor you. It's been hairy recently. Autopsies everyday. Same story all the time"
"Yesterday's different though. Ritually sacrificed victims and sorcery. Ribcage yanked out and all. Real nasty. That lion-faced colleague of yours claimed they were dug out from under 'The Drunk Boar'. All manner of disturbing things, and I just got my appetite back. That watchman's cadaver was bad enough. Who was he again? Lanric Schwart?"
Giselbert Gottschalk's left forearm tensed.
Glossary
(1) Hexenstag: The day between year end and the new year, two months away from the events of the story. Witching Night, where the lines between the realm of the living and the dead is at its blurriest, falls on this day.
(Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay 2nd Edition: Tome of Salvation: Chapter VI: Festivals, Holy Days, And Rights of Passage: Holidays of the Empire pg 144).
(2) Araby: Desert country to the south of the Empire. Centre of trade. Ruled by sultans and sheikhs. Lies to the north of the Nehekhara, Land of the Dead and Realm of the Tomb Kings.
(Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay 2nd Edition: The WHRP Companion: A Guide to the Known World: What's South?, pg 6)
(3) Cathay: A vast empire to the Far East, beyond the World's Edge Mountains, ruled by the Divine Emperor atop Weijin, the Seat of the Dragon Throne. Its land encompasses tall mountains and verdant plains.
(Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay 2nd Edition: The WHRP Companion: A Guide to the Known World: What's East?, pg 8)
(4) Mondstille: Winter Solstice, also known as World Still, celebrated between the month of Ulriczeit and Fore-Witching, at the height of winter.
(Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay 2nd Edition: Tome of Salvation: Chapter VI: Festivals, Holy Days, And Rights of Passage: Holidays of the Empire, pg 146).