The
ancient trees moaned softly, their eldritch baritone singing a foreboding
melody of warning. In the heightless forest shadows a figure walked briskly,
without pause or weight, amidst this alien sanctum of nature. As he moved so
too did the deep woods seem to move, groaning to let him know that with each
step he was trespassing. The very breath of the night fell against him,
peculiarly cold, casting him out of a place no mortal should be.
Hermann Nacthmann reached
out a hand to grip his weather-torn, wide brimmed hat to his skull as the
forbidding wind suddenly surged about him bringing the force of the whole black
night against him. The wind carried with it a familiar, bitter taste. Hermann
had grown to know the flavor well, even tasting it in his haunted dreams. It
was a taste of desperation and fear; it was the taste of Chaos.
Up
ahead the darkness was pulled apart by a pale, unworldly white-blue glow.
Looking beneath him he could just make out the trail of coagulating liquid. Its
dark, tainted color and familiar, sickly, sulfurous odor guided him deeper into
these damned woods, into the abysmal unknown. An acrid, near indescribable
smell of perfume, burning wood and decay drifted over in the subtle breezes.
Hermann rushed to snuff out the light of his lantern before stealing away into
the foliage, stooping low with enough force so that he could viscerally feel the
weight of his pistols pull against him.
As
Hermann crouched in the bush, the spectral light played unnatural games with
bending the thousands of thin, sticky shadows of the darkened woods. The shadows
leapt and coiled inexplicably, the faintest taint of Chaos twisting them until
there seemed to be a grand, monolithic design. This unholy etching connected
the tremendous pale gray trunks and the very ground to the outlaying darkness
like a vast network of living, pumping veins. This network encircled the focus
of the light, spreading out in a twisted, spiraling pattern till it disappeared
into a sapient night's shadows. "The night feeds them with its blood,"
the chilling memory of a young girl's voice echoed in Hermann's mind.
In
the circle of unholy light, just barely touched by the jumping shadows, a
semi-circle of five women stood overlooking two figures thrust to the ground as
if the earth itself had its grip upon them. The faces of the women were all
hidden and distorted by the thousands of vain-like fingers of the shadows until
what remained seemed only to vaguely resemble their human origin. Their ages
differed; young maidens and old crones alike, each with their faces shattered
into unique, crystalline patterns by the shadows. Of them Hermann could see
little to connect to a name, but he could see with greater clarity the two
figures on the ground.
One
was the figure of an old, bald and beardless man; Hermann recognized him
immediately as the innkeeper of where he stayed, Baldrick, her grandfather. The
other was a creature of blasphemy and sin. It was some small, child-sized
mutant, twisted and covered in boils with corruption. From its legs still
seeped the foul smelling blood from the fresh wound Hermann had served it just
prior that night. The creature had come for him in his sleep in an attempt to
silence the Witch Hunter's creed, and had its coming not been anticipated it
might have claimed a lesser man. Hermann watched intently from his perch, his
eyes darting about the scene from shadow to face to mutant to man to the women's
hands and back to the shadows again, not a detail escaping his panicked
curiosity.
"You promised, you promised
me! Oh, the Old Gods curse me, we had a pact!" the old innkeeper Baldrick's
voice cracked with an inlaid weight of grief. An overt rage took him, but he
remained at his knees before the shadow touched cabal.
In turn the women spoke,
each voice so drastically different than each other. First it's a soothe voice
of a maiden, then the crass rasp of a hag, or then the hidden blade of a
middle-aged woman.
"It will hold its tongue!"
"Our pact is our own."
"We have sacrificed much
already. One of our children lay wounded."
"Caution, Baldrick. We have
more at stake here than your wounded pride."
Baldrick raised his head,
glaring intensely at the woman. The dancing shadows played about his face,
jumping about and caressing his old, worn, leathery cheek. The light caught the
tears in his eyes and gave them a brilliant glow that consumed his skull.
Behind that emotionally torn face his rage flowed. "Pride! He killed her, he
killed all because of you! My sweet Bluma. She didn't deserve it. She didn't
even serve you wretched witches, she had nothing to do with your wicked ways!"
Bluma. The scent of a
flowery perfume wafted upon Hermann's memories, a flash of a fair face, and an
unsilencing scream in his head.
"Quiet!" screamed one of
the witches.
"It will be respectful!"
The sound of the sweet, yet
edged voice of the maid cut the night calmly. The shadows twisted her face like
some sort of living veil. "Your daughter is of little consequence to us,
Baldrick, if this fool witch hunter is allowed to end everything we have done.
She was a necessary pawn."
The coarse voice of a crone
spoke, heartless in emotion. "The Old magics are upset. They seek retribution.
They must be appeased."
"Without them, the village
will die." Spoke the voice of a maiden, so soft and innocent in tune. Hermann
noted the small figure of the girl; she could not have been any older than ten,
just barely knowing womanhood if even that. The shadows blotted her face out
entirely, but the unholy light of the silver flame made her eyes shine like a
wild cat's. "The wars have taken all but our elderly. It's their fault!"
"We are noble in purpose,"
spoke another middle-aged woman, "but we are merciless to those who would
threaten everything. Without the Old magics the children will be taken, and
without the children, the mines will go unmanned."
"We already sacrificed one
of our children, Baldrick," chimed another crone voice this one with a
disturbingly welcoming, hospitable tone, "see him shuddering beside you. He was
to have silenced the witch hunter, but look how he bleeds. Oh, sweet, sweet
child, how you have suffered. Come, come to your Mothers..."
The mutant on the ground
looked up, drool uncontrollably drenching its face. Its visage was just as
horribly mutated as the rest of its body, its eyes torn apart to odd angles and
lumps of discolored living cancer infesting the skin. His body festered with
boils, its left arm disproportionate and enlarged and hardened with a thick and
grotesque carapace. Somehow its eyes seemed gentle, though. A great pain lay
there, but as the creature approached the circle of witches it seemed to ease
and vanish.
Hermann felt a tension
suddenly boom through the woods like a shockwave. He silently reached for his
shoulder-holstered pistol, its welcoming weight steady in his hand as he
removed it gracefully. He took a steady aim, guiding it to the mutant.
But
he hesitated. Something caught his eye and stopped him. The shadows that
reached for the flame in the center of their circle they...leapt. With sudden
abandon they leapt for the creature and physically grabbed him. The poor mutant
yelped in fear, giving a near endless howl with all its breath. The shadows
moved and tangled, feeding like a murder of crows pecking flesh from bone. The
glow in the eyes of the surrounding circle flared, not one blinking, all
staring. Hermann simply paused, stunned in silence and awe at the dark powers'
work. As the shadows receded what remained was no longer a mutant. It was the
shattered and dead body of a mere boy. The terrible howl it had unleashed
finally died and all that was left was the foul silence. By the light of
Sigmar, was that what these witches had been doing with the missing children
from the village?
"There
now child," began the comforting old crone, "rest and let the Old ways have
their own." Hermann wasn't sure, but he thought he could make a smile out on
her hovelled face, grinning in the night.
Baldrick
was aghast with fear, his face a frozen portrait of horror wide mouthed and
eyes drawn. "What have I done..." he muttered to himself.
"You
have done as is necessary, old Baldrick," replied one of the witches, her voice
filled with a deceiving sympathy. "As we will it."
"The
Old magics are not appeased!" crowed the old lady, "they demand blood and life.
So long as the Witch Hunter is among us they will not be satisfied!"
One
of the maiden voices finished her thought, "Then your part is clear, old
Baldrick. We must use you to kill him."
Baldrick
at last tore his eyes from the already rotting body of the dead boy, now
staring intently at the cabal before him. His breath was heavy and wild, a
gamut of emotions running through his face. "No..." Hermann tensed his trigger
finger again on his pistol.
"What
was that?"
Baldrick
looked back and forth between the five of them, his heart racing. His face
slowly hardened, a grimace replacing the old weakness of fear. "No!" he barked
at them. "No, you have taken too much already. You brought the witch hunter
here. You deceived my Bluma into being your spy for your... inhuman kidnappings.
What more have I to give you! I wanted vengeance, gods damn you!"
Hermann
guided the pistol away from Baldrick, daring to take his levying hand from it
to grab the hilt of his sword, every muscle twitching with an anticipating
vibrancy. The shadows began to swirl fiercely as an unfelt wind bellowed at the
silver flame and tugged it violently. The shadows gripped Baldrick in a vice,
his head beginning to bulge a bright red as the blood visibly swelled. He began
to scream in pain, his voice echoing.
Hermann
felt his arm stiffen, the old wounds from previous battles ached as if they
were new again. He delayed, peering deeply into the living shadows till he
thought he could even make out a tendril like claw deep into Baldrick's
engorged throat. In truth it was only a fraction of a second. And then the air
ruptured with the crack of thunder and the disgustingly unnatural sweet scent
was overrun with the grainy char and iron smell of fresh gunpowder.
Hermann
dove speechless into the circle, into their bright unholy light, sword ready in
one hand, his other already reaching for the vial of holy ashes on his leather
bandolier. A thousand moments sung in his head as his steel met flesh and
unnatural shadowy beast, all at once. There were screams and curses, the light
vanishing and reappearing sporadically. Hermann would toss the contents of the
vial before reaching for another instrument of death secured to his person, and
then another, and another before the foul night would end. The living shadows
themselves seemed to scream and howl at a pitch that vibrated deep within his
chest. The memory of an innocent's girl's scream deafened Hermann's mind as he
fought into the twilight of the night.
The
dawn was just barely cracking above the horizon, shining down onto the deathly
peaceful backwoods mountain
In
the center of the village there still seemed to be wisps of smoke from the
evening prior, the scent of char and ember still heavy in the cold still air.
As Hermann walked by dragging a heavy chain behind him, he noticed that the
body had long since been removed the steak. He would've almost smiled,
considering the bravery of the villagers to attend the rites of the dead
without his permission, if he couldn't still hear her scream, still smell her
sweet, flowery perfume as close as skin.
He
could still see her bright, sunny face, still a child, still a child. The coven
here had indirectly been using her as their agent, from afar, to coordinate
their kidnappings. She worked with the children, Hermann knew, her heart was
kind and she often tended to them when their own parents wouldn't, or there
were no parents to do so. She was burned as a witch as the whole village
watched, the searing warmth of the torch still on Hermann's hands. Publically,
officially, by his authority as a Templar of Sigmar, she burned.
Hermann
stopped before the large oak doors of the local church. With a swift motion he
yanked the chain he carried and bound it to the front door knocker. Then,
taking and unfurling a parchment role from his belt, he took an old knife and
in as swift a motion jammed the parchment to the door, the village eyes of the
morning still upon him. Without saying a word, Hermann turned and walked away,
heading to his horse to leave the village after his short week and a half long
stay, never another word shared between him and the villagers.
The
villagers cautiously approached the doors. Secured in the chains was the
unconscious Baldrick. The document read, "Here ye: let it be known that the
work of Sigmar and our Great Emperor Karl Franz has been done. In this March,
the
Riding
into the new dawn, Hermann carried her scream with him, like so many before
her. Before he had lit the flames he asked her for forgiveness, not truly
desiring what could not be given. Her soft whisper remained burned with him
deeper than his scars: "Yes". The worst part, the knowledge that still
gave the last dying ember of humanity in the monstrous heart his profession had
made him, was that she would be far from the last. The unseen dark of night
still beckoned at the edge of human sanity, and in that dark night Hermann
Nacthmann would still stand to defend what little light remained.
