“You are wise people,” said the old man, hopping back down from the barn
wall. “I can see it in your eyes.” He hugged and patted those nearest to him,
blind to the grimaces his sour odour induced. As he moved amongst the crowd, he
handed out small wooden hammers, muttering a blessing to each recipient in turn.
The villagers grasped the icons with joy, pressing them to their chests and
muttering prayers of thanks. The old man stroked the hammer emblazoned across
his puckered belly. “This symbol is no gaudy badge of honour. No shallow boast.
The hammer is a mark of our heavy burden. It’s no easy thing to hand out
unerring judgement.” He gave the old woman a toothy, yellow grin as he took the
flaming brand from her hand. “Believe me,” he said, as he approached the pyre
and looked up at the desperately struggling Anna, “mercy would often seem the
easier path.”
The crowd fell silent as he raised the brand and closed his eyes, as though
in prayer. For a few minutes, the crackling of the flames was the only sound,
and then, when he spoke again, it was in a dull monotone. “It is to the merciful
justice of Sigmar that I commit you, servant of the Ruinous Powers. May your
soul find peace at last in the cleansing flame of his forgiveness.” Then the old
man opened his eyes and Anna saw again how unusual they were; the irises were of
such a pale grey that his pupils seemed to be floating in a pair of clear, white
pools. He gave Anna a kind smile as he thrust the fire into the kindling at her
feet.
The crowd gasped and backed away from the pyre, as though suddenly realising
the magnitude of their treachery. The kindling was still damp with morning dew
and for a while nothing happened; but then, to Anna’s horror, thin trails of
smoke began to snake around her feet.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the old man, signalling for the mob to approach. “The
punishment of Sigmar only falls on his most errant children. You’ve all done
well to reveal this woman’s heresy. Now be stout of heart, and see the task
through to its end.” He plucked a scroll from his robes and, as Anna began to
moan in fear, he started to pray. He left the pyre and scampered back up onto
the barn wall, proudly lifting his chin and addressing his words to the
indifferent sky. One by one, the villagers stepped nervously back towards the
growing fire, murmuring along with his prayers. Soon, the old man’s passion
started to infect them. Their doubt passed as quickly as it had come and they
pressed closer, eager to see the witch burn.
Anna strained at her bonds, but they simply bit into her slender wrists all
the more, until fresh blood began to flow down her arms. The smoke was quickly
growing thicker and she felt the first glow of warmth under her feet. She
strained, trying to stretch herself away from the fire, but it was useless. She
wondered desperately whether she should try to inhale the smoke and escape into
unconsciousness, but the thought appalled her; she was not ready to give up on
life yet. She looked out through the cinders and heat haze and felt a rush of
excitement. The two riders had almost reached the square and they were heading
straight for her.
Now that she saw the larger of the two men at close hand, he looked even more
impressive. The lower part of his face was hidden behind an iron gorget, but the
battered metal could not hide the fierce intensity in his dark, brooding eyes.
He was obviously a priest of some importance. Crimson robes hung down from
beneath his thick, plate armour and the cloth was decorated with beautiful gold
embroidery. Religious texts were chained to his cuirass and around his regal,
shaven head he wore a studded metal band, engraved with images of a flaming
hammer. Anna’s heart swelled as he steered his horse towards the baying mob and
looked her straight in the eye.
The crowd stumbled over their words and fell silent as they finally noticed
the two horsemen. As the priest and his young acolyte approached, the villagers
looked nervously towards the old witch hunter for reassurance. He was lost in
prayer, swaying back and forth on the wall and muttering garbled words to the
heavens. “Banish, O Sigmar, this Servant of Change. Dispel her unholy form. I
invoke Your Name. Let me end this Heresy. Let
me
be the instrument of
Your wrath!”
The warrior priest dismounted and lifted his warhammer from over his
shoulders. He surveyed the scene, taking in the wide-eyed villagers and the
quickly growing fire. As his metal-clad fingers drummed on the haft of his
weapon, a scowl crossed his face. Then he spotted the babbling old man, crouched
on the barn wall. With a nod of satisfaction he marched straight past the
priestess, pausing only to pick up a long wooden stake from the pyre. As the
gangly youth tumbled awkwardly from his horse, he gave Anna an apologetic frown,
before rushing after his master.
Anna gasped. They had no intention of saving her. They were bloodthirsty
Sigmarites, just like the old man; blind to anything but their own hunger for
war. She groaned with the horror of it. “Have you no compassion?” she tried to
say, but her lips were thick with dried blood and the words came out as a
mumbled croak. She spat into the growing flames, cursing the hammer god and all
his witless minions. Let the fire take her. There was no hope for a world ruled
by such monsters. She would rather take her chances with the creatures of the
forest than face another holy man.
The old man finally noticed the priest striding purposefully towards him. He
tugged excitedly at his straggly hair as he saw the holy texts and hammer icons.
A broad grin spread across his face. “Brother,” he cried, skipping down from the
wall, “you’ve joined us at a crucial moment.” He spread his arms in a greeting
and rushed towards him.
The priest remained silent as he approached. Upon reaching the old man he
lifted him from the ground, as easily as if he were a small child and carried
him back to the wall. Before the witch hunter could mutter a word of protest,
the priest raised his great hammer and with one powerful blow pounded the wooden
stake through the old man’s chest, pinning him to the wall and leaving him
dangling, puppetlike a few feet from the ground. Cries of dismay exploded from
the crowd as a bright torrent of blood rushed from the old man and began
drumming across the dusty earth. For a few seconds he was mute with shock,
staring at the priest in confusion, then, he too began to scream, clutching
desperately at the splintered wood and trying to stem the flow of blood.
The priest seemed oblivious to the pandemonium he had triggered. He calmly
wiped the old man’s warm blood from his armour and stepped back to survey his
handiwork.
“What have you done?” screamed the old man in disbelief, thrashing his
scrawny limbs like an overturned beetle. “You’ve killed me!” He looked over at
the crowd. “Somebody stop him. He’s a murderer.”
The crowd backed away, suddenly afraid, as the warrior priest turned to face
them. His black eyes flashed dangerously from beneath thick grey eyebrows and
when he spoke it was with the quiet surety of a man used to being obeyed. “Leave
us,” he growled.
The villagers looked around for support, but only met the same fear in each
other’s faces. With a last disappointed look at Anna, they shuffled back towards
their homes, muttering bitterly at being deprived of their sport.
The priest turned back towards his prey, who was still howling with pain and
fury. “Adelman,” cried the old man, scouring the upturned carts and ruined
houses, “where are you, you dog? I’m injured.” But however much he called, no
one came to the witch hunter’s aid.
The priest and the boy watched in silence as the old man continued his
frenzied attempts to remove the stake. After a few minutes, he realised that
each movement simply quickened the blood flow. At last, as his face began to
drain of colour, he realised death was at hand and fell silent, looking over at
the priest in wide-eyed terror. “Who are you?” he said, shaking his head in
dismay. “Why’ve you done this to me?”
The priest nodded. “Greetings, Otto Surman. My name is Jakob Wolff.” He
stepped closer to the old man. “You may remember murdering my parents.”
Surman’s face twisted into a grimace of horror. “What? I’ve never met you
before, I…” His voice trailed off into a confused silence. “Wait,” he said,
peering at the priest, “did you say Wolff? I
do
know that—” A fit of
choking gripped him and a fresh torrent blood ran from between his crooked
teeth. When the fit had passed, he sneered dismissively and spat a thick red
gobbet onto the floor. “Oh, yes, it all comes back to me now. I remember your
wretched family, Jakob.” He shook his head at the towering warrior before him.
“And I don’t regret a thing. Corruption runs in your people like the rot. I’m
only sad I let you live.”
The acolyte flinched at Surman’s words and looked up at his master to see his
response. The priest remained calm. The only outward sign of his anger was a
slight tightening of his jaw.
“You’re a liar,” he replied. “It has taken me thirty years of false penitence
to realise my mistake, but finally I understand. My parents weren’t guilty, any
more than I was guilty for accusing them.” Colour rushed to his cheeks and he
suddenly gripped the stake. The wood was embedded just below the old man’s
shoulder and with a grunt the priest shoved it even deeper. The noise that came
from Surman’s throat sounded barely human. “You murdered them, knowing my
accusations were wrong. I was an innocent child. You knew they weren’t
occultists.” His voice rose to a roar. “Admit it, you worm!”
“Save me,” whimpered Surman reaching out to the young acolyte. “Don’t let him
do this to me, I beg—”
“Admit it!” cried Wolff again, ramming the wood even deeper into the ragged
wound.
“Yes,” wailed Surman, arching his back in agony and beginning to weep. “Yes,
yes, yes, you’re right, I knew it wasn’t them.” He grabbed the priest’s arm and
gave out a strange keening noise that echoed around the village streets. “But
you
summoned me. You made the accusation, and someone had to pay the price.”
He gave the priest a look of desperation. “Once the wheels have begun to turn,
it’s hard to stop these things. I can’t…” His words disintegrated into
incoherent sobs.
Wolff stepped back and looked up at the sky, considering the old man’s words.
“I understand your methods, Surman.” He shook his head. “It’s to my eternal
shame that I did not then. It still haunts me to think that I betrayed my own
parents to a villain such as you. Even after a lifetime of penance I can’t come
to terms with it.”
The witch hunter looked down at the blood that was pooling beneath him, and
groaned with fear. “What do you want with me?” he pleaded, reaching out to the
priest. “It’s been thirty years, Jakob, what can I do now? I’m an old man, for
Sigmar’s sake!”
The priest lowered his gaze and looked back at him. “We both know my parents
were innocent of the crimes they died for; but there’s another lie here; one
that can’t be left to fester.”
The witch hunter’s eyes bulged and he shook his head frantically. “What? What
lie? What could you want to know after all these years?”
“Who was the true guilty party, Surman? Who was the real occultist?”
Surman gave a strangulated choke of laughter. “What?” he said, sneering in
disbelief. “You don’t even know?” He began to jerk back and forth with deep
shuddering laughter, baring his bloody teeth in a feral grin. “He doesn’t know
who it was.” Tears continued to flow over his cheeks as he giggled hysterically
and pointed at the priest. “It’s almost worth dying, just to see what an ass
you’ve grown into. And to think your parents thought so highly of you. How could
you not spot corruption in the face of your own brother?”
Wolff moved to strike the old man, but then the strength seemed to go out of
him. He stumbled and leant heavily on the wall next to Surman.
The old man’s face was now just inches from the priest’s and he whispered
gleefully in his ear. “Yes, you pompous oaf, you know it’s the truth. Fabian was
the only occultist in the Wolff household, and he’s let you carry his guilt
around all these years while he spreads his poison over the Empire; praying to
the same unspeakable horrors you’ve spent your life trying to destroy.”
“Fabian?” whispered Wolff, as he slumped against the wall. “My own brother?”
“Your life’s a joke, Wolff,” spat Surman. “You’ve wasted thirty years in
penance for another man’s crime.”
Jakob finally gave into his fury and grabbed Surman by the throat, raising
his hammer to dash the old man’s brains out. “It can’t be true,” he snarled. “If
Fabian was worshipping the Dark Powers, why would you let him go free? You may
be a filthy, deluded monster, but you imagine yourself to be some kind of witch
hunter. You even fooled me into believing you were a priest. Even by your own
twisted logic you should have wanted Fabian dead. If he were a cultist, why
would you let him go free?”
Surman shook his head and grinned slyly at the priest. “You’re no wiser now
than you were at fifteen, Jakob.” He gestured wildly to the pyre. Anna had
finally slipped into unconsciousness as the flames rose around her. “I burned
your parents, you fool,” he said in a thin, agonised whisper. “Do you think I’d
be such an idiot as to admit my mistake?” He slapped the hammer on his belly and
looked up at the sky. “I still had important work to do, Jakob. I couldn’t risk
execution for the sake of one deluded conjurer. Just a few days after you left
Berlau, Fabian signed up with the Ostland Black Guard. Sigmar knows what
mischief he was planning to wreak there, but three decades have passed since
then. I imagine he’s long dead.” He shook his head imploringly. “What can I do
about it now, after all this time?”
“The Black Guard?” said Wolff, tightening his grip on Surman’s throat. “What
else do you know of him? Speak quickly, if you—”