"Why did you survive?" de Smedt broke in.

"What?"

"You survived. Everyone else died. Why?"

"I've asked myself that more times than I can count. And I have no idea." That was a lie. Duquesne had a theory, but wasn't sharing. "It must have been a mistake."

"In your experience, do Tzeentchians make that kind of mistake?"

"You might be surprised. People assume that Tzeentchian cultists are well organized because he's got the most sorcerers and the like. And it's true to an extent. But they forget, in the first place, that Tzeentch is a god of Chaos, and second, that he's the god of change, or anarchy. In my experience, it depends on what kind of Tzeentchian is in the lead. If it's a magister-type, then no, they don't make mistakes like that. If it's a rabble-rouser, they can and often do."

"You seem have extensive knowledge of the Ruinous Powers."

"Save me, Verena," Duquesne muttered under his breath, and spoke up, "You cannot possibly be implying what I think you're implying. I'm a witch hunter. Of course I have knowledge of the Ruinous Powers. They're the enemy. If you want to defeat the enemy, you have to understand him."

"I can think of six dozen senior clerics across a dozen cults that would disagree with you."

"I bet I could find an equal number that would agree with me. And the ones that do? They're the ones who have actually fought the old gods, not sat in cloister their whole lives reading. Even von Kalbach has never suggested that trying to understand the enemy is sinful."

"We're digressing. Why did you survive?"

"I told you I don't know."

"Reporter, mark that question for the record. Further inquiry required. Continue, Herr Duquesne."

I awoke with a gasp, and tried to bolt upright like I'd read heroes could do. But all I felt was a massive, debilitating pain in…my entire body. After what felt like an hour recovering from that effort, I managed to roll onto my back and open my eyes. The sun was high, and the sky a bright, brilliant blue that seared my eyes. I slammed them shut and gasped for air for another few minutes before trying to flail around again.

When I did, I managed to make enough noise that someone noticed. "Oy! Father! Got a live 'un over 'ere!"

A moment later, my vision was filled by the heavily lined, clean shaven face of a Canon of Sigmar, his heavy miter shifting dangerously on his head. "My son! You live!"

I coughed for about a minute. "Obviously," I choked out.

"Levity. You'll survive," he said, his tired face breaking into a warm smile. "Stretcher!"

A moment later, I was placed, somewhat roughly I thought, onto a stretcher. "Wait, priest!" I croaked, and then coughed several more times. "Where are my men?"

"What men?"

"My chapterhouse tried to put down the riots. The last thing I remember was being thrown from my horse."

"Are you a Templar?"

"What?" I said, incredulous, and then managed to glance at my armor, which had been so heavily damaged that its Sigmarite heraldry was completely illegible. After another coughing fit, I spat, "Yes, dammit. I was in command of the Sigmarstrasse Chapterhouse. There were thirty of us. Did any survive? Konrad von Warburg? Friedrich Uhl?"

"Father Konrad is with Sigmar. I know nothing of the other."

"Fuck…" I sobbed, and passed out again

When I awoke again I was in Sisters of Mercy Hospital near the citadel. I glanced around the room, and saw that Arielle was sitting on the bedside table, with a note. I tried reaching for the note, but I was too sore. But, I counted the fact that nothing hurt as long as I didn't move as considerable progress.

After a few more tries, I managed to snatch the note. It said: Managed to wrest this from von Kalbach's clutches, lest you fret that your precious Arielle was gone. Don't die. The girls would be devastated. -L.

I tried smiling, but it hurt too much. The noise I made must have alerted a nurse, who flipped back the curtain enclosing my bed and said, "Conscious. Progress."

"Don't push your luck," I said as I tried sitting up, which earned me another brush with unconsciousness.

"Should learn to take your own advice," the nurse said as she watched my rather pitiful display.

"Never got the knack," I said before choking on another wave of phlegm. "Who are you?"

"Nurse Runge. You, sir, are in very poor shape."

"Never mind that. Where are my men? Have they been accounted for?"

"Some, not all."

"What about Friedrich Uhl?"

"I don't know. I can find out."

"Damn it. Do it."

"You know he's probably dead, right?"

I gritted my teeth, and spat, "Find out," and turned to face the other curtain.

I stared at the curtain, and eventually fell into a restless sleep.

And suddenly, the curtain was thrown back, and I awoke. My vision was filled with the image of Nurse Runge, whose face was tight and pained looking. "I'm sorry, Templar."

I forced a few hard breaths out through my nose. "Dead?"

"I'm afraid so. I found his name in the register."

I bit my lip hard enough it bled. "Thank you," I managed. I swallowed a huge breath and asked, "Tell me about all of this," I said, gesturing feebly at the mass of bandages and splints covering my body.

"Broken collarbone, two broken shoulders, multiple pelvic fractures, every rib broken, severe damage to your internal organs, severe concussion, and a half-shattered knee."

"Lovely. When will I be out of here?"

"Three months? Maybe more? Who knows? You have a lot of recovery ahead of you."

"Unacceptable. How long have I been here?"

"A little more than one day."

"I need to get out of here tomorrow. Do what you have to do to make that happen."

"The amount of magic it would take to get you mobile by then would literally turn you and the healer into explosive sludge. So shut up and rest."

"Rested enough. Work to do."

"What work?"

"Investigation. Need to investigate what happened."

"There was a riot."

"Yes, and I guarantee no one's trying to figure out why there was a riot."

"It was cultists. Who the hell knows with them?"

"Shockingly, you can find out if you look. And while I sit here, the evidence that would tell me why is degrading or being destroyed."

"Evidence? What witch hunter ever needed evidence? Just what kind of witch hunter are you?"

"My kind."

"Fine. Since I can see you're going to be obnoxious about it otherwise, I'll see what I can do. Now go to sleep," she said. She flicked her wrist in a complicated pattern, there was a brief flash of light, and I was unconscious again.

I awoke to the sound of Nurse Runge's voice, saying, "-Dr. Elsa von Seeberg is here to treat you."

"Good morning, Templar. You are not looking so well."

My eyes opened, and I was looking into the stern face of an older woman, wisps of steel-gray hair spilling out of her Shallyan headscarf. Her gray eyes were framed by a huge spiderweb of wrinkles. She appeared incapable of smiling.

"How soon will I be able to leave?"

"Soon, but not as soon as I am told you would like."

"I need to be out of here by tomorrow."

"Out of the question. You need at least three days."

"So two will be enough to get me walking, right?"

"That is not the point. If you leave prematurely, you will likely die of complications from incomplete magical healing. Even if you do not, you will be no use to your fellows."

"Do what you have to do to get me functional within two days."

"I will do what I can safely, for myself. For you, there will be great pain. And it may kill you."

"I'll risk it."

"So be it. I will try to keep you unconscious for as long as possible."

"And that," Duquesne said, "is about where my recollection ends for those two days."

"You remember nothing of the treatments used on you?" de Smedt asked

"Except the pain."

"Describe it."

"Why?"

"I want to make sure you're not trying to hide something from me."

"I was in the hospital. There were witnesses. I'm sure they kept records of my treatment."

"I've not received your records, nor had reports or testimony from anyone else on that subject as yet," the Lord High Inquisitor lied effortlessly. "And so, expound."

"Fine. Once upon a time, I got captured and tortured by Norscan reavers. Among other things, hot pokers, clubs, and such, they shoved these long, thin pieces of metal coated in a paralytic poison from Ind under my fingernails. They put them in so deep I remember the metal bumping into my first knuckle." Duquesne noted with an inward smile the way de Smedt and Ollenhauer winced, and noticed with a certain surprise that von Worlitz did not. He continued, "The pain was so extreme that, even at the time, I couldn't really feel it. I sort of drifted out of myself, and even remember staring at myself screaming. The procedures Dr. von Seeberg performed on me were less painful, but only such that I didn't get the benefit of any out-of-body experiences."

"Gods. Very well. I believe you," de Smedt said

"Thank you."

"Continue."

"Well, my first memory after that is arguing with Dr. von Seeberg-"

"Frankly, Frau-Doktor von Seeberg, I don't care. I'm leaving this hospital. Clearly, I can walk, and it doesn't even hurt much," I said, attempting to storm away before being stopped by von Seeberg's arm, which was surprisingly strong for a sixty-something woman. It couldn't have been because I was still weak. Absolutely not.

"You cannot."

"We have had this conversation, doctor. I will leave against your advice if need be. You are absolved of any responsibility for anything that might happen to me."

"Just saying it does not make it so."

"Ah, but it does," I said, flashing a smile I feared looked more pained than I had hoped. "I am serious, doctor. There is work to be done. I have spent three days in this damned hospital, and I know that with every passing moment the danger to this city grows."

"Witch hunters are so paranoid."

"Well, I should know that everything really is out to get us."

"Fine. But when you die, I'm not cleaning it up."

"You have my word, Dr. von Seeberg, that when I die, you will never learn of it. I will bid you good day, and say thank you for your able care."

I swept past her, and made my way down to the front desk, where I inquired after my clothes. Apparently, a friend of mine had dropped off a fresh set a few days ago. I changed quickly and hailed a coach. I considered visiting the friend who had dropped off the clothes, but I needed to start taking stock of the evidence as soon as possible.

Fifteen minutes later, the coach dropped me off outside the Grand Chapterhouse on the Bertholdsplatz, the city's most exclusive plaza. A long rectangle, the Bertholdsplatz's north end terminated at the feet of the city's two great manors. The Duke's palace, the Greifensburg, was situated at the peak of the hill, the highest and nearly northernmost point in the city Carroburg. The even greater, though less strategically located, palace of Boris Todbringer, Kurfurst von Middenland, was situated just to southeast of Bildhofen's pile. The palace and upper-class district was enclosed by an inner wall, which, combined with the large curtain wall encircling the rest of the city, made it a formidably fortified location. The city itself, and most of its 28,000 inhabitants (and all their human waste), spilled down the south slope of the hill towards the right bank of a curve in the river Reik. The city met the river in a massive dockland, sprawling piers and warehouses fanning out on stilts into the thick, slow-moving water in all directions. Despite its size, Carroburg's port was only a shadow of its titanic cousins in Marienburg, Altdorf, and Nuln. Directly opposite the city, across the river, was another, smaller dockland. Beyond the walls, and inland from the west docks, sprawled the city's impoverished suburbs, the population of which probably rivaled the city itself, making the area Middenland's second most important population center. The Reik, the beating heart of Sigmar's Empire, was thick with barges, sailing ships, Customs cutters, and even a squat, heavy ironclad river monitor, at the confluence of the great river and one of its many tributaries, the river Bogen.

Standing on the Bertholdsplatz, deep in the palace district, one would never know the city had nearly been destroyed three days ago. It was thick with well-to-do ladies and gentlemen, their opulently embroidered and outrageously slashed sleeves and wide, lace collars threatening to swallow their bodies whole, leaving their linen jackets, doublets, and bodices to compete vainly for attention. The men wore wide-brimmed felt hats festooned with exotic feathers and cocked at improbable angles. Some of the women followed suit, but more wore equally elaborately embroidered linen caps, and most wore bodices with high and tight necklines, though some of the younger women wore bodices with scandalously low necklines. Many of the men, mostly older, covered their legs completely with hose, but the younger and middle-aged men had switched to breeches.

The city's wealthy flitted between coffee shops, tea houses, taverns, inns, theaters, booksellers and print-houses and even one or two of the new, so-called 'restaurants' aimlessly. They ate, drank, read, gossiped, and fucked each other like animals as though there weren't bloodthirsty cultists in their midst. Most of them probably even believed it, and would continue to believe it right up until a some lunatic cut out their hearts and fed their souls to daemons. I knew it was an unfair characterization of an entire group of people, having met many rich men and women who were also stern and undeluded foes of Chaos, but I was in significantly more pain now that I had been when I left the hospital and so disinclined to nuance or charity. In my blackening mood, I considered the good cheer evident on the Bertholdsplatz a poor omen for the reception my intention to investigate would receive in the Chapterhouse.

Of course, I hoped to drop in, get what I needed to start, and be gone before von Kalbach knew I was there, but that wasn't a very realistic goal. Von Kalbach may not have been a good detective, and not always a very good enemy of Chaos, but he was alert.

As I approached the Chapterhouse, I diverted from the front entrance, which I saw was crowded with young Templars trying to look tough and pure by casting suspicious stares out at the Bertholdsplatz, as if they wouldn't join them as soon as their shifts ended. Most witch hunters are drawn from the lower nobility, the class most naturally inclined to repulsive debauchery. Being born a member of that same class, and having personally engaged in a good deal of repulsive debauchery myself, I know whereof I speak.

I managed to slip into the servant's entrance, silencing a few cooks and porters with stares and a flash of the heraldry embroidered on my jerkin. I quickly ended up in the main hall of the Grand Chapterhouse, which had desks and other work spaces for about a hundred Templars. I scanned the desks for documents relating the riots. It took a few minutes, but I found one desk piled high with documents, though they were neatly stacked in their files. Apparently no one had gone through them, which I judged typical of Carroburg's witch hunters. I began glancing through their first few pages. Most of the files consisted of what looked like meaningless busy work that had yielded no real evidence. Of course, I'd have to go through them carefully later to make sure I was right, but for now I had a very specific goal in mind.

Unfortunately, I was only about half way through skimming the files when a voice behind me barked, "Duquesne!" Naturally, von Kalbach had found me.

I stood, rather stiffly and painfully, faced the Paladin of Carroburg and came to rather creaky attention. The Paladin was only about an inch taller than me, but was probably at least a foot broader. He was a massive man, with closely-cropped iron-gray hair and intense blue eyes. His face was meticulously shaven, probably the better to display his fearsome collection of scars. Around the middle he had a slight paunch, but underneath were obviously thick layers of muscle. His dress was Spartan and functional, eschewing the more outrageous styles seen outside. Underneath his jerkin, similar to mine, I could see he was wearing a light shirt of mail. Behind him, leaning against his desk on its raised dais, was the massive two-handed sword which he always carried when out of the chapterhouse, eschewing the firearms favored by most Templars. It was a huge and unwieldly weapon, but (and I knew this from having fought by his side before) von Kalbach was a man of surprising speed and lethal grace, especially for someone who looked like little more than a bruiser.

"Junior Templar, First Grade Erich Duquesne reporting for duty, sir."

"Duty? Are you joking? You can barely stand."

"Give it a minute, sir."

Von Kalbach sighed, "What the hell are you doing here, man? I spoke to the Canoness of Medicine at Mercy. You were supposed to be out for months. I filed paperwork to that effect. You're on medical leave."

"I have no doubt, sir, and you don't have to officially take me off medical leave."

"Oh, now that I have your permission-"

"Sarcasm. You're improving, sir."

"Shut up. Now, out with it, what are you doing here?"

"I want to investigate the riot."

"Out of the question."

"Why?"

"First, there's no point. The taint has been purged. After the Duke and I put down the riot, we executed the survivors and thoroughly cleansed the city." Translation, I thought, we murdered a few hundred now-homeless people. I couldn't decide what irked me more, the laziness, the injustice, or the lack of professionalism from men who should have known better. "Second," he continued, "if word got out we were investigating after the cleansing, it would inspire another panic. You know the press. Third, we don't have the resources. Most of our manpower is engaged in the rebuilding, specifically the warding of new construction."

"I accept all of that, sir, and you may even be right. But this is my job. I really, really want to do my job. There's a reason the Church trained me to do this work and assigned me here. There's a reason the Church continues to train investigators as fast as they can be recruited. Detection is not a flight of fancy. You have your skills, sir, and I have mine. I think they complement each other."

"That's a good speech, Erich. But I think you're full of shit."

"Am I?"

"First, I know you hate me for standing in the way of your precious detection-"

I tried to interrupt, but von Kalbach held up a hand, "Ah! And I don't like you much either. I think you're soft and yes, I don't think your methods contribute much. Second, I know you want to punish the people who killed your friends. My condolences, by the way."

"That's part of it, yes."

"I promise they have already been punished."

"Maybe. I want to make sure."

Von Kalbach heaved another sigh, "If I don't let you do this, you're going to do it on your own. Right?"

I shrugged.

"Asshole. Fine. You can investigate. But I'm giving you a partner."

"You mean a spy."

"Yes."

"Fuck," I snarled, but without real heat. I knew that I wasn't going to escape this condition.

"Fuck," the Paladin agreed, almost amiably

"Who?"

"Vandenberg! Front and center."

Upon hearing the name, I muttered under my breath, "Cannot be serious. Not this guy."

Junior Templar, Third Class Jochen Vandenberg practically sprinted to attention before the Paladin. He was young, no older than 19, and ridiculously chipper. I hated him, possibly because he might have reminded me a little of myself when I was that age. Maybe.

He had bright blond hair, ludicrous blue eyes, and cheekbones so high and sharp you'd probably lose your hand if you slapped his idiot face. He was at least four inches taller than me and slender, but acceptably muscled. Unlike most witch hunters, he was given to vanity and wore a rather impractical-looking version of a hunter's uniform. It was finely tailored, but it appeared to lack most of the defensive features a real hunter's clothing would boast. For instance, my overcoat was not only reinforced with steel brigandines but the leather was also woven with powerful warding and banishing spells. My jerkin was similarly fortified. What leather Vandenberg's outfit did have looked a little forlorn next to the extravagant lace collar and shredded, puffy sleeves.

"I trust you know young Herr Vandenberg, Duquesne?"

"We've had the pleasure," I said through slightly gritted teeth, extending my hand, which was strongly shaken.

"Herr Duquesne is a most novel witch hunter, wouldn't you agree, sir?" the young man said, oblivious.

"Yes, the wave of the future, truly," von Kalbach said, visibly suppressing an irritating grin, for which I thanked the Lady. It wasn't impossible that, if he actually smiled, his face would literally shatter. And even if it didn't, the sight of that man smiling would have given me nightmares worse than the most depraved Daemonette.

"Well, as much as this conversation doesn't make me want to choke to death on my own vomit, shall we, Vandenberg?"

"Lead the way, sir."

I smartly spun back to von Kalbach, and then regretted it as my gut was suddenly stabbed with pain, jerked my head and said, "Paladin," and then left to go.

"Duquesne," von Kalbach said to my back.

Title note: Title translates as 'Pain Don't Hurt,' which, yes, is a reference to the Patrick Swayze movie, among other things.

'Lore' note: On the demographics of Carroburg, I know that official Games Workshop materials say that Carroburg's population is 8,000. This is simply not enough for my purposes, and a little unrealistic, I think (though I could be wrong; demographic records from the real-life 17th century Europe are scanty at best). Hence the increase to 28,000, plus an additional dock across the river (which would be in Reikland, by the way) and suburbs all around.