If a Witch Hunter is leading you somewhere before breakfast, it means you took a wrong turn somewhere on your life path.
I had seen this templar before. He was the one who conducted my welcoming interrogation along with the priestess of Verena. His name was Günther Feuerbach. He was a grim-looking man in his thirties, whose weathered face was crossed by many wrinkles and small scars. Life had clearly been hard on him. He wore the high hat and leather cloak typical of Witch Hunters. In addition to the blade on his belt, he carried a whole arsenal of daggers, stakes, pistols, and various vials, distributed across many straps on his clothing.
The reputation of Witch Hunters was more than sinister. They were fanatics who would rather burn a whole village of innocents than let one heretic escape.
Was I panicking now, marching alongside Günther and his companions? No. But I was definitely nervous. The templar's attention promised me nothing good. However, there was one encouraging detail—I was allowed to carry my weapon. Such a thing is hardly permitted to suspects or the accused. So, my status is still in question. That's good already.
Furthermore, Liandra's presence nearby reassured me. I am certain the pointy-ear is watching us now, waiting for developments. She needed me alive. She intended to deliver me to the White Tower at any cost to atone for some past mistake of hers. I believe that a few dozen human lives would easily fit into the scope of her "at any cost." Therefore, if they do try to execute me, I can count on her help. Then, however, we would have to urgently flee to Ulthuan.
Alright. No need to look so far ahead or let my mind wander into the mists of the future. Just walk, Jurgen. Place your feet on the rocky mountain road.
In almost complete silence, we left the Imperial army camp. Beyond it, ten more infantrymen awaited us. They seemed to be soldiers from some special border regiment with a name like the "Marksmen."
— Herr Feuerbach, — the senior infantryman, carrying a crossbow on his shoulder, slightly bowed.
The Witch Hunter replied with a nod and silently continued his journey. Damn. He was much more talkative during the interrogation. His silence was unnerving. I tried to distract myself by looking around. The greenery of the trees and shrubs was slightly calming. It was almost the same here as in my native world. If I ignored my companions, I could imagine that I was simply on a tourist hike along mountain trails.
We were descending towards the cursed Friedrichsburg. That means the Hunter's visit is connected to the brawl. That's even somewhat good. They are unlikely to send me to the stake for a couple of broken faces and a cheek pierced with a fork. In the worst case, they will hand me over to the city authorities for retribution. An unpleasant option, but tolerable. I'm sure Wolfgang Laemmel's henchmen will get a little revenge. I wonder if I can regenerate, for example, knocked-out teeth? It's quite possible that I'll soon find out. However, there was a big plus in that scenario: Liandra would certainly rescue me from the city guard. That's much better than fighting a Witch Hunter and Imperial archers.
And there was Friedrichsburg in the valley below us. A nasty hole steeped in foul stench. Visiting this town could instill a strong aversion to the human race in both members of other sane civilizations and humans themselves.
When our detachment was sufficiently stretched out on a narrow section of the road, a gray-haired arquebusier leaned towards me and whispered barely audibly:
— Don't worry, kid. Just do as we do.
I wanted to ask him a couple of questions, but Günther turned and looked intently at us. No one spoke to me again until we reached the town.
At the gate, we were met by the familiar fat, round-faced guardsman in a dark red jack of plate with a couple of patches. He was the one who so willingly accepted bribes from Erik. Seeing me, the guardsman frowned.
— This one is wanted, — he pointed at me with a thick finger. — He injured a burgher. He's not a soldier, is he? Give him to us.
The Witch Hunter replied with a short:
— Out of the way.
And, without slowing his pace, he walked past the guards into the gate that was open for a trade caravan. We followed him, bypassing carts on which chickens were clucking in cages.
Hello again, Friedrichsburg. Rough paving stones reeking of the heavy smell of urine and slops. Skinny stray dogs with pitiful eyes. Overhanging houses, between which clotheslines were strung. A slightly dilapidated, very dirty town soaked in human filth.
We headed straight for the Sleeping Dragon tavern. The ill-fated establishment where I had to defend my life with my fists and dodge chairs hadn't changed at all. Inside, the same noisy, relatively well-dressed company awaited us. Even Wolfgang Laemmel was sitting in the exact same spot, surrounded by sycophants and thugs.
Everyone present in the establishment immediately turned their eyes towards us. No wonder. A whole detachment of soldiers led by a Witch Hunter. However, many were looking not even at Günther, but at me. They remember, the bastards. Traces of our acquaintance remained on the faces of Wolfgang's henchmen.
Most of the soldiers lined up along the wall near the entrance. Günther walked toward Wolfgang and gestured for me to follow him.
— Herr Feuerbach! — the rich man grinned. — I'm glad you decided to honor my family's humble establishment with your presence. Is this related to yesterday's misunderstanding? Herr Casterman had stitches. A very unpleasant wound.
— Not the first brawl in your tavern, — the Hunter replied.
This phrase was thrown out casually. I got the feeling that the Hunter was just biding his time. His dark eyes drilled into Wolfgang himself and the rich man's cronies.
If my soul had entered the body of an Elf or a Vampire, the keen hearing of such creatures would now catch the sound of the gathered men's sphincters clenching. Wolfgang nervously licked his painfully scarlet lips.
— Not the first brawl, and unfortunately, not the last, — the rich man shrugged. — Beer, ale, wine, and a lot of men. One extra word is like a spark in a powder keg. Such is the trouble with all drinking establishments.
Wolfgang was immediately supported by other patrons.
— This one… — a balding man with shifty eyes pointed at me. — He came yesterday, got drunk, and started a fight. There was a noseless dwarf with him too. They're bandits!
An approving murmur, mixed with accusations against me, came from all sides. Someone even claimed that I insulted the Elector Count and made dubious statements about the Emperor's majesty. Well, I'll be! I think if you gave these goats fifteen minutes of creative freedom, it would turn out that Erik was snacking on the bones of innocent babies with his beer, and I, sitting at the table, was texting the coordinates of Imperial military facilities to Archaon and the Chaos Dwarf artillery.
Feeling the support of the townspeople, Wolfgang was visibly cheered.
— The good people of Friedrichsburg, and especially my father, have provided what assistance they could to our valiant army, — he stated. — In return, we ask for little—protection from arbitrary violence and banditry. This man… — he pointed at me, of course. — …showed his disrespect for the law of the Empire. If he is not part of the army, then hand him over to our guard. Otherwise, we can discuss other ways to compensate for the damage caused.
— Put him in the stocks for a week! — someone demanded. — And give him the lash!
Günther did not answer. He began to pace back and forth thoughtfully, occasionally fixing his eyes on one of the patrons. That person immediately fell silent, but the rest of the crowd continued to demand "justice."
— Crime must not go unpunished, — Wolfgang stated resolutely.
— Agreed, — Günther unexpectedly replied, and swiftly closing the distance with the rich man, he reached a hand inside his collar.
The Hunter ripped an amulet from the young dandy's neck. It seemed to be a symbol of Shallya or just a similar themed decoration. Cries of surprise and indignation erupted among the townspeople.
— W-wait! — Wolfgang stretched a trembling hand towards the trinket, but the Hunter had already placed the bauble on the tabletop and smashed it with the pommel of his dagger.
Inside was some gray powder. Cocaine?
— It's just medicine, — the young dandy whined, turning pale. — I bought it from the city alche… I mean, apothecary. He can confirm it. It's all legal.
Günther, ignoring his whines, meticulously poked at the gray powder with the tip of his dagger, and then said with grim satisfaction:
— Well, well…
Squinting, I noticed several greenish granules in the gray powder. Warpstone. Ho-ho-ho. As the Skaven say: someone is doom-doom.
— What does all this mean? — Wolfgang decided to deny it to the end. — I told you, the apothecary sold me this medicine. Its composition and…
A shot rang out like thunder in a clear sky. Günther drew a pistol with extraordinary dexterity. No one had time to understand what was happening, and Wolfgang Laemmel slumped to the floor, his head shot through.
A deathly silence reigned in the establishment.
Günther Feuerbach placed the smoking pistol on the tabletop, looking at all those gathered. Then the Hunter said:
— Yes. I know that this execution could be called hasty. — Günther seemed to apologize. — By rights, he should have been tortured, interrogated thoroughly, and burned at the stake. However, the proximity of the enemy forces me to act quickly. I do not doubt for a moment that this heretic is guilty. The consumption of forbidden concoctions is only the last point on a long list of signs of corruption. Constant beatings of tramps and travelers, the disappearance of serving girls, mutilated corpses found near the city. With each passing year of impunity, this degenerate lost caution. Finally, he dared to assault soldiers under the protection of the Countess. And now I am only interested in one question: how many of his servants, friends, and relatives were initiated into his abominable mysteries?
The Hunter's last phrase acted as a trigger for the frightened locals. About a dozen of Wolfgang's patrons and thugs attempted to flee.
The archers immediately blocked their path, but I remembered the tavern's back door. Drawing my sword from the sheath, I rushed there with great pleasure, cutting off the runners. Several soldiers joined me.
I tripped the very blond guy who had tried to hit me with a chair yesterday. Today he looked much more timid.
Three particularly desperate men charged through. I managed to slash one of them in the leg from behind, grab another by the collar, and the third almost escaped, but two soldiers with long cleavers came out of the tavern's back door to meet him. That means Günther had planned the operation in advance and blocked the escape route.
My schadenfreude rejoiced. Local corruption and mutual cover-up could not withstand a collision with fervent Sigmarite fanaticism.
Everyone who tried to flee was herded back into the tavern, where Günther methodically and carefully reloaded the pistol with which he had shot Wolfgang.
— We will take the heretic's main circle with us, — the templar announced. — We will check for signs of corruption, interrogate them, and put them through rites of repentance. We will release the most salvageable ones or take them into the army. The irredeemably tainted… — Günther glanced toward the corpse.
On the faces of the recently smug and sneering people, fear, sorrow, and a silent plea for mercy were now reflected. The thugs who liked to beat up tramps now resembled the skinny stray dogs of Friedrichsburg with their mournful looks.
— Karl, Jurgen, follow me. We need to check this degenerate's room, — Günther commanded.
We went up to the second floor of the tavern. Wolfgang's personal den was located there, in addition to the guests' rooms. It was clear from the threshold that the guy had been long and deeply mired in the nets of vice. The room, locked with three separate locks, resembled a parlour for BDSM games. Whips, ropes, shackles, even genuine metal, wood, and bone dildos. And some of them were clearly designed to inflict pain rather than pleasure. Any Goblin would be proud of such a spiked club. I almost wanted to take the local version of a Shishkin club for a fight against a particularly fierce Warp-cyborg from the Skaven Clan Skryre engineers.
Günther was not interested in sex toys. With a trained eye, he searched for hiding places for books, ritual objects, and other signs of a cult. Some things were particularly repulsive. Wolfgang collected fragments of female bodies in glass flasks. Mostly nipples. Among other things, a remarkable figurine was found, depicting some beautiful… creature. One side was female, the other male. Slaanesh. The Dark Prince.
It is interesting that cultists of this specific Chaos God recently accosted us before the pass. Perhaps there was a whole widespread network of sects here.
Günther threw all the particularly dangerous evidence into a black sack, saying:
— Burn this. And this. Burn it.
When the collection in the black sack stopped growing, Günther searched the room a few more times, and then said:
— Let's go to the apothecary.
We went downstairs, where we took a few more soldiers and went outside. Guards and some dressed-up rich men were already waiting there.
They were clucking like frightened roosters, trying to block our way and elicit an explanation from Günther. He only showed the contents of the sack to the people for a couple of seconds. Even an inexperienced person's glance was enough to understand the abominations we were dealing with. The questions immediately dropped. The city authorities hurried to get out of our way.
Unexpectedly, one of the waitresses approached Günther. The young girl was clearly frightened. The templar looked at her and asked:
— Is there something you want to report, child?
— Me? No. Just… thank you. Thank you so much.
Tears streamed from the girl's eyes, washing the cheap powder from her cheeks. Some director would consider such a scene a symbolic purification. As if living sincerity was breaking through the falsehood of venal love.
— Don't waste our time, — the templar answered harshly, almost pushing the crying girl away.
We headed to the house of the doctor and alchemist.
It's strange, of course. When I first saw the Witch Hunters, I immediately perceived them as a potential problem. I constantly expected suspicion, interrogation, and even torture. However, Günther turned out not to be the problem, but its solution. Perhaps his colleagues are indeed fanatics, but what if fanatics are exactly what is needed to fight such corruption? Especially when it affects people so rich and protected from ordinary law.
Also, on the way, a thought occurred to me: do secret cults of Khorne exist in the Empire? And if so, what do they look like? Fighting clubs?
Before entering the alchemist's house, Günther walked around it for a few minutes. Was he looking for a disguised back door? Possibly. Finally, we entered, accompanied by two soldiers.
The alchemist's dwelling was quite remarkable. It reeked of formaldehyde, incense, and reagents. All the walls were hung with shelves on which vials of concoctions stood. In the corner of the room, a huge, predatory bird with gleaming eyes was snarling. It was partially bald, with almost no feathers left on its wings. An old stuffed animal.
And it wasn't the only exhibit. On a heavy oak table, amidst a pile of papers hastily and carelessly rolled up, stood a massive bottle containing the head of a goat-horned Beastman.
— Good day, gentlemen, — a man in his sixties came out to meet us. — Lothar Cryptman. Doctor, alchemist…
— Sorcerer, heretic, — Günther finished for him.
— No! May Sigmar protect me! — the old man whined.
His bald head was framed by wing-like remnants of completely gray hair. A large hooked nose hung over thin, tightly pressed lips. Light gray eyes shone brightly behind small, armless spectacles. He didn't seem creepy. Rather, funny and eccentric.
— You sold Wolfgang Laemmel a forbidden concoction.
— Sold? Yes. I don't deny it. But I had absolutely no choice. He threatened me. Wolfgang is a dangerous man, Mein Herr. His thugs threw me into the river. Twice. I tried to complain and…
— A confession, then, — Günther nodded with satisfaction. — That's good.
— I swear to you that I meant no harm, — the old man continued. — I am ready to atone for my guilt. The army? Do you want me to go with you? I have skills as a doctor and basic surgical skills. Do you know how many medicines I've sold? Thousands! And everything has always been legal. It's Wolfgang. Let me…
— You are very lucky, — Günther interrupted him.
I thought he would accept the old man's offer and take him to the army, where doctors were scarce, but the templar slit the alchemist's throat with a swift movement.
— You are lucky, scum… — the templar repeated more crudely, watching the doctor gasp and slump, losing blood. — Lucky that I can't deal with you and this foul hole properly. The cursed rush.
I glanced at the templar's face. Incredible hatred and the sinister smile of a sadist made me involuntarily shudder. Günther now seemed almost more terrifying than all the Chaos cultists I had ever seen. He clearly loved his work. Perhaps I was too quick to change my attitude towards Witch Hunters. Let's return to the thesis that they are dangerous fanatics.
Günther took a vial from one of the shelves, smelled the contents, and smashed it against the dying alchemist's head. I sensed some caustic smell.
— Outside! — the templar commanded us and struck a flint.
So that's what he was looking for outside. He wanted to understand how safe it would be to burn down the alchemist's house with all its contents.
The trophies from Wolfgang's den the templar left next to the alchemist's corpse.
Soon, we were standing against the backdrop of the rapidly burning house. Inside, vials of reagents kept exploding, coloring the fire in bizarre hues.
— I spoke about you with Markus Schlossberg, — Günther stated. — He is a decent man. He spoke well of you.
Oh. Thanks. Hanging out with the Sigmarite circle wasn't in vain. It helped.
— I advise you to listen to him, — the templar continued. — And listen less to that girl. Adora. Watch her. And if there is even one suspicion… report it to me immediately. The same goes for the Elf. Don't trust them. And one more thing. Olger Hok will return soon. I know you want to form a detachment. That's commendable, but foolish. I would rather scatter you among the existing detachments, and you… — he painfully poked my chest with a leather-gloved finger. — I would take you to assist me. I don't know if you really killed that wizard by Sigmar's will. Markus's words might contain unintentional exaggerations. But at your age to fight off a gang… You definitely have potential.
Damn.
Well, now it's clear why Günther dragged me along today. It was, so to speak, a trial day. Why didn't he say so immediately? He clearly enjoys playing with people's nerves.
Witch Hunters are dangerous fanatics, and I'm being hinted at the possibility of joining them.