ever since.’
The witch hunter’s face lost some of its anger as he listened to her story, becoming sad and cold. ‘And did you kill your sister?’ he asked.
Ulrika swallowed, remembering Countess Gabriella pointing through the open window of her tower room to the bright dawn beyond and telling her that she might walk in the sun at any time. She hung her head. ‘I had a chance once. I failed to take it.’ Then she bared her teeth. ‘But the vampire who turned her is dead.’
The witch hunter hesitated, then lowered his pistol. ‘You should not have flinched,’ he said. ‘Sparing your sister was a false mercy. She was already dead and her soul long lost. You would only have put her out of her misery.’
‘Aye,’ she said, hiding a wince. ‘I know.’ She wished now she had told a different story, one that had not reminded her of her cowardice. At least it seemed to have convinced him. She had achieved a Lahmian victory. It hadn’t been nearly as enjoyable as a fight.
She looked up, trying to think of some way to bid him adieu and hurry after the little man, but she couldn’t think of a way to explain how she could continue hunting without a lamp in the dark. ‘Will you help me now? I have no light, and the fiend is escaping while we talk.’
The witch hunter frowned at her, considering. ‘I dislike leading a woman into such a business.’
‘But if you take me back to the surface you will never find him again.’
‘Aye,’ he said, then grunted unhappily. ‘Very well, but stay back.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ulrika, grinding her teeth. She pointed down the correct tunnel. ‘He went that way.’
The witch hunter nodded and started into the tunnel, his spurs ringing as he stomped ahead in heavy riding boots. Ulrika followed, cursing his plodding speed. They would never catch the little man at this rate, but perhaps they could at least follow his trail to his lair. His footprints showed clear enough in the slime that filmed the ledge.
‘What is your name, fraulein?’ the witch hunter asked as they trotted along.
‘Ulrika Straghov of Kislev,’ she said without thinking, and then immediately wondered if she should have given a false name. It was too late now. ‘And yours, mein herr?’
‘Templar Friedrich Holmann,’ he said, bowing curtly. ‘A witch hunter of the Holy Order of Sigmar.’
‘I am honoured,’ said Ulrika, though terrified was closer to the truth. She seemed to have won his trust for the moment, but she knew that the slightest slip of the tongue or lapse in her masquerade would bring his suspicious witch hunter nature to the fore again. She felt she was treading on eggshells every moment she was at his side.
They jogged on in silence for a moment, then Holmann coughed. ‘I know how difficult it is to be strong in the face of corruption, fraulein,’ he said. ‘Particularly when you discover it within your own family, but it must be done. I killed my own parents when I discovered they were mutants.’
Ulrika looked up at him, aghast. In a single sentence, he had proven all the tales she had heard of his kind correct. They would indeed sink to any depths to show their devotion to their faith. And yet…
And yet, she did not see the light of fanaticism blazing from the young man’s grey eyes. Nor did she hear the hectoring tone of boastful righteousness, only a grave, faraway sadness. He was not proud of what he had done.
‘It hurts to this day,’ he continued. ‘But I find strength in Sigmar, and you would be wise to do the same. In his teachings I have learned that I gave them release from their suffering.’
‘I pray you are right, mein herr,’ said Ulrika, and smiled sadly to herself. In his grim, ham-fisted way, the witch hunter was trying to comfort her, to give her courage for an unpleasant task. It was touching.
She remembered her father giving her a similar talk when she had been a little girl and hadn’t understood why he had taken her older brother out on
The witch hunter’s face lost some of its anger as he listened to her story, becoming sad and cold. ‘And did you kill your sister?’ he asked.
Ulrika swallowed, remembering Countess Gabriella pointing through the open window of her tower room to the bright dawn beyond and telling her that she might walk in the sun at any time. She hung her head. ‘I had a chance once. I failed to take it.’ Then she bared her teeth. ‘But the vampire who turned her is dead.’
The witch hunter hesitated, then lowered his pistol. ‘You should not have flinched,’ he said. ‘Sparing your sister was a false mercy. She was already dead and her soul long lost. You would only have put her out of her misery.’
‘Aye,’ she said, hiding a wince. ‘I know.’ She wished now she had told a different story, one that had not reminded her of her cowardice. At least it seemed to have convinced him. She had achieved a Lahmian victory. It hadn’t been nearly as enjoyable as a fight.
She looked up, trying to think of some way to bid him adieu and hurry after the little man, but she couldn’t think of a way to explain how she could continue hunting without a lamp in the dark. ‘Will you help me now? I have no light, and the fiend is escaping while we talk.’
The witch hunter frowned at her, considering. ‘I dislike leading a woman into such a business.’
‘But if you take me back to the surface you will never find him again.’
‘Aye,’ he said, then grunted unhappily. ‘Very well, but stay back.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ulrika, grinding her teeth. She pointed down the correct tunnel. ‘He went that way.’
The witch hunter nodded and started into the tunnel, his spurs ringing as he stomped ahead in heavy riding boots. Ulrika followed, cursing his plodding speed. They would never catch the little man at this rate, but perhaps they could at least follow his trail to his lair. His footprints showed clear enough in the slime that filmed the ledge.
‘What is your name, fraulein?’ the witch hunter asked as they trotted along.
‘Ulrika Straghov of Kislev,’ she said without thinking, and then immediately wondered if she should have given a false name. It was too late now. ‘And yours, mein herr?’
‘Templar Friedrich Holmann,’ he said, bowing curtly. ‘A witch hunter of the Holy Order of Sigmar.’
‘I am honoured,’ said Ulrika, though terrified was closer to the truth. She seemed to have won his trust for the moment, but she knew that the slightest slip of the tongue or lapse in her masquerade would bring his suspicious witch hunter nature to the fore again. She felt she was treading on eggshells every moment she was at his side.
They jogged on in silence for a moment, then Holmann coughed. ‘I know how difficult it is to be strong in the face of corruption, fraulein,’ he said. ‘Particularly when you discover it within your own family, but it must be done. I killed my own parents when I discovered they were mutants.’
Ulrika looked up at him, aghast. In a single sentence, he had proven all the tales she had heard of his kind correct. They would indeed sink to any depths to show their devotion to their faith. And yet…
And yet, she did not see the light of fanaticism blazing from the young man’s grey eyes. Nor did she hear the hectoring tone of boastful righteousness, only a grave, faraway sadness. He was not proud of what he had done.
‘It hurts to this day,’ he continued. ‘But I find strength in Sigmar, and you would be wise to do the same. In his teachings I have learned that I gave them release from their suffering.’
‘I pray you are right, mein herr,’ said Ulrika, and smiled sadly to herself. In his grim, ham-fisted way, the witch hunter was trying to comfort her, to give her courage for an unpleasant task. It was touching.
She remembered her father giving her a similar talk when she had been a little girl and hadn’t understood why he had taken her older brother out on
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