01 - Empire in Chaos (6 page)

But more than this, he was a witch hunter, and his occupation was obvious.
His presence inspired fear and twinges of guilt even in the guiltless.

The hushed chatter began to reassert itself as drinkers and cold travellers
turned back to their private musings and discussions, pulling hats and hoods
down over their faces so as not to draw the witch hunter’s attention to them.
Udo strode towards the bar, removing the wide-brimmed hat and placing it down in
front of him. Those standing nearby backed away. He saw one patron try to hide
his malformed, club-like hand within his coat, and Udo shook his head slightly.
It was always the same—any wretch who had a disability would try to hide it
from the eyes of a witch hunter, fearing prosecution. Udo had no interest in
burning. Apples or those afflicted with birth defects but he could understand
the fear of these simple people—there were witch hunters who would see them
cleansed in flame.

“What can I get for you, friend?” said the barkeeper, trying and failing to
hide his nervousness. He was a pudgy man with eyeballs that protruded a little
too far, giving him a goggle-eyed, startled expression like a fish. He also
seemed to be sweating heavily, though it was not overly warm within the room.
Udo instantly disliked him.

“A room. A meal. But first,” he said, “I want a drink.”

“If it’s no bother, good sir, I would see your coin beforehand,” said the
innkeeper, wringing his moist hands nervously. “I don’t mean to be discourteous,
but these are hard times, and I’m sure you can understand my reticence at
serving a stranger without first knowing that he could pay. Can you, sir? Pay, I
mean?”

Udo glared at the little man for a moment, his lip curling in distaste. The
barkeeper fidgeted, his protruding eyes flicking left and right. Udo pulled the
glove off one of his hands, finger by finger, and the pudgy, sweating innkeeper
jumped as he slapped the black leather glove down on the bar. Still staring at
the barkeeper, Grunwald lifted a clinking pouch of dark leather from his belt
and pulled out a pair coins, which he slammed down onto the bar.

“Will this do?” he sneered.

“Most indeed, gracious sir! Most indeed!” said the barman. The coins
disappeared in a flash, and he thrust his hand towards Grunwald. “I am Claus
Fiedler, the owner of this fine establishment. I
am
happy to have such a
fine upstanding gentleman such as you staying beneath my roof.”

Udo stared at the innkeeper’s proffered, sweating hand in distaste, and
ignored it.

“I’ll take that drink now,” he said.

“Why, yes, of course sir.” He began enthusiastically pumping a grimy mug with
ale, grinning like an idiot, sweat dripping down his brow.

Don’t fall in my ale, Grunwald thought, seeing a heavy bead of sweat hanging
precariously over his pint from Fiedler’s eyebrow. Thankfully, it didn’t, though
the image had already soured his enjoyment of the drink.

Taking the mug, he turned his back on the unpleasant barkeep. It was probably
the barkeeper that had been caught with the donkey, he thought.

He looked for an isolated place to sit, having no wish to engage with anyone.
He saw the dwarf he had met three days earlier smoking his dragon-headed pipe in
the corner. Thorrik, wasn’t it? He inclined his head to the stocky dwarf
warrior, who nodded his head solemnly in acknowledgement. He was not surprised
to see the dwarf again—this was one of the few inns on the road to the
south-east.

Pushing through the stinking crowd of travellers, farmers and local drinkers,
Udo found himself a secluded bench in a dark corner, away from the press of
bodies. He placed his ale on the table, shrugged off his crossbow which also
went down on the table with a heavy thump, and shifted the bench so that it was
up against the wall, glaring at the patrons who tutted and huffed as they were
bumped out of the way.

He slumped down in the seat with his back to the all and cracked his aching
neck from side to side.

Lifting his ale, he took a tentative sip. It was weak, but not bad, and he
gulped back a mouthful.

He was sore and tired, and he sighed as he rested his aching back against the
wall. After the battle alongside the dwarf, he had recovered what coin he could
from the bandits and returned to the Sigmarite shrine that they had robbed,
intending to bequeath it to the priest there. He had found the priest lying on
the floor of the holy shrine, his throat savagely cut and his body filled with
stab wounds. For two days he searched for sign of the killers, but had found
nothing. His failure to discover the culprits rankled him, and after burying the
priest and putting the shrine in order, he had somewhat reluctantly continued on
his way. His master was expecting him, and he had already wasted enough time.

It wasn’t long before the sweating figure of Fiedler was back at his side,
putting a bowl of steaming grey slop down before him and a hunk of bread. It
looked incredibly unappetising, and he poked at it with his spoon. Fiedler stood
at his side, grinning like an idiot, clearly waiting for some complimentary
reaction to his food.

“Go away,” said Udo, and the pudgy innkeeper nodded and stuttered before
moving back behind the bar. Udo saw him cuff a servant hard over the back of the
head.

“Out of the way!” he heard Fiedler shout, which got a laugh from some of the
customers. The servant was clearly a simpleton, his head tilted to the side and
his jaw slack. As he shuffled out of the way of his master, Udo saw that one of
his legs was twisted awkwardly beneath him, giving him an ungainly loping gait.

Grunwald ate his fill, dipping the bread into the steaming slop, which wasn’t
as bad as it looked, though he could not identify the chunks of meat in it. It
was probably best that he didn’t know, he decided.

Upon the completion of his meal, the simpleton came to collect his plate,
limping through the press of people. He lifted Udo’s used plate, his fleshy
tongue protruding from the side of his mouth in concentration. In an instant,
Fiedler was at his side, and he cuffed the servant over the head again, swearing
at him, and took the plate from his hands.

“I’m sorry about that, sir, he’s not right in the head and shouldn’t be
bothering you,” he said apologetically.

“What is his name?” asked Grunwald.

“Otto. Idiot son of my dead sister,” he said, lowering his voice
conspiratorially, as if speaking to one who would understand his sentiments. “If
he weren’t family he would have been out on his arse years ago. Still might be,
the way the useless cripple carries on. Upsets the customers.” He chuckled to
himself and nudged Udo. “And we can’t be having customers the likes of you bein’
upset by the likes of him, family or no.”

Grunwald looked into the eyes of the repugnant barkeeper. “Touch me one more
time and I will break your face,” he said quietly. Fiedler visibly paled.
Ignoring him, Grunwald addressed the servant cowering at the barkeeper’s side.
“Thank you, Otto.”

The simpleton grinned at him broadly.

“Your presence repulses me, you foetid little man,” said Grunwald, addressing
Fiedler, who was still hovering at his side. He didn’t move away, however, and
Grunwald looked at him, an eyebrow raised. “Leave,” he said slowly and
menacingly.
“Now!”

Udo sighed. He gained nothing by threatening the man except for spit or
something worse in his meal if he ever ate here again. But he wouldn’t be eating
here again—he would leave before dawn, and would eat on the road. He still had
some way to travel, and the sooner he was away from here the better. Briefly he
considered taking his money back and leaving, to sleep rough on the road, but
the promise of a pallet was too enticing, even if it was in a hovel such as the
Hanging Donkey.

Grunwald had just decided to turn in early when a ruckus erupted across the
room. A patron’s head was slammed into a table, breaking his nose and leaving a
smear of blood on the wood.

“We don’t want your type round here no more,” shouted a burly, drunk local,
lifting the dazed man roughly to his feet. The thug’s friends tried to calm him
down, but he shook off their hands angrily.

“No!” bellowed the drunk, and he rocked on his heels, unsteady with drink. He
slammed a fist into the man’s stomach, and he folded under the force of the
blow, falling to the ground.

“Now Rikard, that’s enough,” said Fiedler, approaching the drunk with his
sweating hands held out before him.

“S’alright for you,” slurred the drunk. “You are gettin’ fat off the money of
all these travellers. But not me,” he said, tapping himself on the chest. “They
come here—any one of ’em could be bringin’ plague. Shouldn’t be allowed here
anymore, I say!”

A hearty, drunken cheer from more than half the patrons in the bar followed
this pronouncement. The travellers, many sitting with their wives and children
as they fled the ravages of plague and war, looked around nervously, feeling the
hostility within the room directed towards them. Heartened, the drunken local
thug kicked the downed man hard in the face.

“I say make a stand—make sure there won’t be no one passing through here
’til the plague is long gone,” he bellowed, to another hearty cheer. He
emphasised his point by kicking the fallen man again.

“Now Rikard, I think you’ve had enough for one night. Go home and sleep it
off, eh?” said Fiedler, taking another wary step towards the swaying thug. The
drunkard rumbled at his belt and drew a short-bladed knife, which he levelled at
the barkeeper’s throat.

“Keep back with you, or I’ll gut you like the swine you are, Fiedler,” he
snarled. He nodded his head towards the fallen man. “I’m gonna string this
bastard up. Word’ll spread, and there won’t be any more damn outsiders passin’
through. Pick him up,” he barked to his friends. They immediately lifted the
near unconscious man, and followed the drunkard as he stomped outside.

There were scattered cheers, and the sound of chairs being pushed back as
more patrons rose to follow the thuggish trio, clearly wanting to witness the
outcome of the confrontation.

Udo sighed and stood up. He pressed a coin into the malformed hand of the
simpleton servant, Otto. “Don’t let anyone touch my crossbow,” he said. “And
don’t tell your uncle that I gave you this coin,” he added. Otto grinned at him,
and Udo stalked through the packed inn, pushing people out of his way as he
followed the crowd.

Outside, the beaten man was on his knees in the middle of the street.

“Please, Sigmar no!” he pleaded, tears and blood running down his face. “I am
travelling to my wife and child in Averheim! I sent them on ahead! If you kill
me, you kill them too! Please, you cannot do this!”

Ignoring his pleas, the drunkard grabbed the man by his hair, pulling his
head back for the killing blow. The crowd roared for blood.

Pushing people roughly out of his way, Udo stalked into the centre of the
circle.

“Kill that man and you die next,” he said. His voice was not loud, but he
spoke with such authority and menace that it gave the villagers pause. Grunwald
had drawn one of his ornate, embossed pistols and it was levelled at the drunken
would-be murderer’s head. The roaring died down, and the fallen man looked up at
him, desperate hope in his eyes.

“Who is this?” snarled the drunk, gesturing with his knife towards the dark
clad figure of Grunwald, eyes trying to focus on the barrel of the gun pointed
at him.

“Grunwald,” he said loudly, his deep voice pitched perfectly to carry to all
those crowded around. His next words were said slowly and clearly, so that none
could mistake them. “Udo Grunwald, witch hunter of the Temple of Sigmar.” There
was sudden silence, and several within the crowd began to inch away from him.
“And I say again—you kill that man and you will die next. I promise you that.”

Blinking his eyes heavily, the drunk glanced at the crowd around him. His
motives were easily read—he was gauging the crowd’s reaction, trying to judge
if they would tackle the witch hunter if things got more serious. He looked once
more at the pistol held before him, and he spat a thick ball of phlegm onto the
ground at Grunwald’s feet before sheathing his knife.

“This ’aint over,” he snarled, and turned and stomped unsteadily away. He made
to kick the fallen man once more as he left, and smirked as the beaten man
flinched. The crowd rapidly dissipated. Grunwald was soon left alone bar the
bruised man who was thanking him through his tears. He was surprised to see the
dwarf Thorrik standing a few paces away, his axe in his hands.

“Thought I was going to have to come to
your
aid this time round,” he
said, his voice grave.

“Glad they saw sense and it was not needed,” said Grunwald darkly.

“Bah. That manling had murder in his eyes. Though I think he saw the sense in
not arguing with a loaded gun—even if it is a shoddy weapon made by the clumsy
hands of men.”

Grunwald snorted. “Come,” he said, as the pair walked back to the inn,
helping the wounded man inside. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

They saw Fiedler standing in the door of the inn, wringing his hands
nervously.

“See that this man is taken to a room and his wounds tended to. If he is not
well cared for, I will hold you personally responsible,” Udo said to him. The
barkeeper’s face was pale, but he nodded, and helped the man inside.

“Repugnant little troll,” commented Thorrik, his face curled as if he had
stepped in something unpleasant.

“A bit unfair, perhaps,” said Grunwald mildly. “On trolls, I mean.”

The dwarf looked seriously at Udo for a moment before his eyes creased with
humour, and he gave a throaty chuckle.

“Aye,” he said. “You may be right.”

Annaliese stopped to rest for a moment, leaning her hand against a tree, her
breath ragged. Though it was freezing cold, she was sweating inside her heavy,
fur-lined coat. She stared up the steep incline to where the elf stood, his face
turned back towards her. He beckoned sharply for her to continue, and she
steeled herself for the climb.