viimeiset osat Witch Hunter Chroniclesiin (osat 4 ja 5)

[hullukoira]

Here are the fourth and fifth parts of the witch hunter chronicles. The fourth is about von Carstein, and was easy to write. The last one of this series, the fifth, took more time, as the Lahmian kept slipping out of my grasp. Still, here they are. Enjoy if you can.



The Witch Hunter Chronicles, part four


Von in deed


A coach rattled it's way towards Huffenbergen.

Upon it's window, a maid clung, her colden hair caught in the fresh evening breeze. She was enjoying the scenery, it seemed, of the ragged mountains and the dark forests.

'Oh, look, Ferny dear,' the beauteous maiden suddenly cried out with rather a strained falsetto. 'A castle! How on earth did it get to the top of that cliff?!? Oh, how sad it looks! I wonder if anyone lives there!?!'

Another face appeared at the window of the coach. It was a halfling, with ruddy face and keen eyes. It seemed to be sweating, despite the mellow weather.

'A castle indeed,' said Ferny Stoutfoot loudly, sounding very much like he was reading lines from a script. Which he was. 'But hark, Ronan, I mean ROSY, might this be the haunted castle of the vampire we have heard of spake!?! (spake, boss???)'

'Surely not,' cried the maiden, his mascarraed eyes agog and his mouth in a pretty, red ooh.

'Come, uh, lass!' crieth Ferny, having some trouble deciphering his lines, 'You had better hide from sight! For we do not want an umpire, I mean a vampire, seeing a pretty maiden such as you! It might get funny fleas! I mean ideas! Ho, driver, how long till the tavern called Day's Done, where we intend to spend the night???'

'Few miles, sah,' answered the coachman, a local pater of fifty odd years. As the travellers disappeared back into the coach, he shook his head and rolled his eyes. Tourists. They just got madder every year.

And aloft in the brooding castle, a face disappeared from a shadowed window, where it had been spying upon the coach with keen interest.

************************************************************

Ferny stoutfoot was sweating profusedly. Once again.

'Boss,' Ferny hissed from his hidey hole, 'you have any idea how hot this damned place is? And the air's so stale. If the vampire doesn't show itself soon I'm gonna suffocate.'

'Shush!' hissed Ronan Argent, the witch hunter extraordinare, from inside an armoire. 'I reckon it's about midnight! The count should be here soon!'

'If he's showing at all,' grumbled Ferny. 'I mean he couldn't be this stupid, now could he, boss???'

'Stop complaining, Ferny, and keep breathing! I think I heard something!'

***********************************************

Count Albertus von Carstein stood upon a rooftop of a smithy, staring at the inn that lay across the sleeping street. He could not believe his undead eyes. For there, afore him, was a window, an open window, and beyond, a fair maiden, sleeping in the light of a dainty nightlamp.

Ah, but what memories the sight brought to the old count. For he remembered the times when fair maidens everywhere had slept with their windows open to the cool of the night. Oh, it had been a grand time. A grand! A handsome vampire such as he had been spoilt for choise as to which neck to dip his teeth into.

Not so now. Now, vampires were everywhere, and were counted as nuisance, not a nobility. Peasants slept with windows and doors barred, and had hanged garlic simply everywhere. And I mean everywhere. It had been eons since the count had last seen, let alone tasted, something like a real, living, breathing virgin. Eons! And yet, now, here was one. The count flew closer, levitating skillfully in the air.

Reaching the window, the count slipped silently in to the room. Upon the bed, the maid was sleeping still, her breath heavy and even. Her pale, full chest rose and fell to the rythm of the breath in a most hypnotic manner. Drunk with opportunity, Count Albertus swept forward, bent down, and BIT!

Yeaaaaaggghhhh!!!!

**********************************************

Hearing a ruckus, Ronan verily crashed through the door of the armoire, toting two pistols at the figure dancing in the middle of the room. The count did not seem well. Not well at all. For his face was melting like it was being etched with strong acid. Bones showed. The hapless count scratched his face and throat as he pranced about in his pain, but this only made it worse. He tried to scream, but no sound came. Ronan took careful aim and shot the vampire in the chest. The beast of a man fell over, a gurgling sound coming from his burnt throat.

'So it actually worked!' exclaimed Ferny as he crawled out from under the bed, where he had been making sleepy breaths and rythmic pushups to make it see as the figure upon the bed was really alive. The halfling was drenched in sweat. Luckily the window was open.

'Yes,' noted Ronan, moving a bit farther from the sweaty halfling, and watching the vampiric corpse with a frown. 'The old garlic-filled-mannequin trick did the works.'

'When you explained the trick,' grunted Ferny, glancing at the said mannequin upon the bed, 'I thought you had lost it completely. I mean exploding coffins I can see working, but I never thought anybody alive, or dead, for that matter, would be so stupid as to fall for this one. I mean, a lady sleeping with an open window? In these times? In these lands? Still, it is quite clear why this one fell for it...'

'Really?'

'Yeah! I mean he's von Carstein, right? Nobility! And we all know what imbeciles nobs are! All that inbreeding, eh, what, boss?'

'Indeed, Ferny. Your wit never ceases to amaze me.'

'But what's with the body, boss,' asked Ferny, kicking the vampire in the ribs. 'Should it not turn to dust or something?'

'Yes, it should,' muttered Ronan, thoughtful. 'Hmm... It must be older than I thought to survive two silver bullets. So! Only one thing to do, Ferny: saw it's head off.'

'So that's why you packed the saw,' grunted Ferny, dipped into an equipment case, and bent over the task with a small hand saw. The body was surprisingly dry, so the work was quite easy. 'By the way, boss, is vampire blood always this colourless???'

Ronan bent down for a closer look. Indeed, the ichor coming form the halflings cut was brakish and sticky, yet surprisingly clear, liquid.

'Oh, it must have been hungry,' noted Ronan.

'How so?'

'Well, we do not know for sure, but the theory of it goes like this: The vampires lack the red essence of blood that humans and animals have, so...'

'So they need to drink blood to gain the said essence?' Ferny cogitated.

'Excactly!' Ronan exclaimed. 'Well spotted, Ferny. We will make a full witch hunter of you yet!'

'Yeah...' said Ferny slowly, as he watched the vampire finally starting to turn to dust. 'I have meant to ask about that, boss: Has there ever before been a halfling as a witch hunter?'

'Oh, yes!' Ronan answered, picking his silver ammunition from the heap of dust and opera clothes. It really was clever how you could use them over and over again.

'Really?'

'Really. I know of two: One, Mandy Matchmaker, died some three hundred yeaers ago, after a good career. The other, Stake Rippins, retired to Moot some twenty years ago. I believe he still lives there.'

'You don't say! Well, I have to say I would very much like to go and meet this Rippins fellow one day! I'm sure he could give me few good pointers, him being a halfling and all!'

'I dare say he could,' agreed Ronan. 'But hold on a bit: is Moot not due west from here?'

'Yeah! Two days ride, I believe.'

'Well, why not visit the man, sorry, halfling, now? We are headed west in any case, and we could use some days of vacation before the next job.'

'So the next job is in the west,' Ferny grunted. 'Boss, you're not going to go after the Lahmian, are you?'

'Well, I thought it would complete the set,' answered Ronan.

'Yeah, but is it wise, boss? To go after Lahmian, I mean. They are devious, it is said.'

'I am devious too, Ferny.'

'No, with all due respect, you are not. You are merely cunning, boss. And devious beats cunning hands down.'

'Come off it, Ferny, that's just sophistry!'

'Just as you say, boss. Just as you say. But mark my words, boss: If you go after a Lahmian, you'll not emerge unscatched.'

'Consider them marked. But now, we better make haste. Time to pack up, Ferny!'

'Eh? What's the sudden hurry?'

'Well, Ferny, this count was older than I surmised. and von Carsteins do not like when their patriarchs are killed off. And when the pissed bloodsuckers arrive, we had better be far away!'

'Nuff said, boss.'


The end

************************************************'


The Witch Hunter Chronicles, part five


The Lady Lahmian.


Ferny Stoutfoot was sweating profusedly.

It was early autumn in the Empire, and the air was like a furnace. Ronan Argent, the witch hunter extraordinaire, and his trusty sidekick Ferny, were making their way to a distant mansion of a known temptress and an art dilettante. To put it plainer, they were on their way to meet a Lahmian vampiress. So as to exterminate her.

'Boss?' grunted Ferny, wiping sweat from his forehead.

'Yes?' Ronan answered, deep in thought. He was not bothered by the weather. Born in Tilea, he was used to high summers.

'You sure about this one?' quizzed Ferny. 'The Lahmians are devious, boss. Devious!'

'I know, Ferny, I know. And that is why it'll work. We will use her deviousness against her. I did explain it all to you...'

'Yeah, fair enough. But I still cannot see why you had to go and send an introductory letter to her!'

**********************************************

Ronan Argent kicked his way thorugh a door. There was a skeleton. It went down by his sword. There was a thrall. It was too slow for Ronan. There was a wraith. But it soon fled in terror as the witch hunter threw a blessed book of sigmar at it.

Well, it had been a boring read anyway...

Finally Ronan reached the innest sanctum of the fell mansion, a drawing room. The doors to the salle were open, showing a space filled with finest art and excellent taste. Sneering at such splendor, Ronan pulled out his pistols and stepped in. And as expected, the Lahmian was waiting for him. With his letter in her dainty, pale hands.

Ronan lifted his pistols and barked, 'Die now, fell un... ummm...'

Why am I here? thought Ronan, blinking in sudden confusion. His head felt like it was filled with lavender clouds. And why am I pointing these horrible guns at this lady. This beauteous creature? This embodiment of innocense and grace. Away with them!

The pistols clattered to the floor. Ronan stood like rooted to the spot. He kept staring at the Lahmian, drool running from the corner of his mouth.

The Lahmian lady rose, showing off her ample cleavage, and stepped to the witch hunter with a knowing smile upon her full, sensuous lips. Ronan simpered in response.

'So this is the famous witch hunter Ronan Argent,' the vampiress stated with a musical, titillating voice that made Ronans hairs stand on end. And not only his hair... 'They said you were handsome devil. They were not lying. But they said also you were cunning. I wonder...'

The vampiress bent closer to inspect the witch hunter. She sniffed. Ronan breahed deep the scent of her auburn hair. It smelled of winter gardens, of broken earth, yet, the scent was more wonderfull than anything Ronan had ever smelled.

'Ahah!' the vampiress creid suddenly, stepping back. Ronan made to follow, but a look from her new mistress stopped him. 'So that is how you were meant to trap me!' the vampiress continued. 'Ronan, take off that silver collar!'

Without hesitation Ronan obeyed. Reaching up to his neck he pulled a tiny latch. And lo! the skin around his throat peeled off. Only it was not his real skin, but a clever fake. Made of silver, and painted the colour of the skin, the collar would have badly hurt the vampiress, maybe even killed her outright, had she tried to bite him. It had been a clever ruse, but not clever enough. Not that Ronan, in his present state of infatuation, cared.

'So you would have liked me to bite you, eh?' the Lahmian said, smiling evilly. 'Well, let us fulfill your wish then! For I am quite thirsty!' And with that the vampiress bent closer, bit deep into the throat of the witch hunter, and drank. Ronan barely gasped.

But the vampiress did not drink long. For a sour look filled her mien. The blood of the witch hunter tasted 'orrible! It made her stomach turn and her mouth feel like the inside of a skaven stronghold. The Lahmian lady spat and shivered. 'What is wrong with your blood,' she moaned.

'I would personally bet on the two week garlic diet,' answered an amused voice from behind the Lahmian.

Out of instinct, the surprised vampiress jumped sideways, faster that eye could follow. Just in time, for in the next hearbeat, two BOOMS of pistols, and two silver bullets streaked through the place the Lahmian had just occupied. The bullets hit a priceless vase, shattering it. The Lahmian looked at the new threat. It was a halfling, of all things. A henchman, no doubt, of the witch hunter.

The halfling threw the pistols aside, and pulled out a slim silvery blade. 'Go on then, wench,' he baited the vampiress.

The Lahmian snarled. The bullets had destroyed a treasured heirloom. Such tasteless destruction appalled her. Plus, the poisonous blood of the witch hunter in her system was making it hard for her to think coolly. So, screaming in rage, the vampiress pounced behind the Ferny the halfling, her body verily blurring with speed. Before the diminutive figure could do naught, the vampiress had pulled his head back and crushed her sharp teeth against his windpipe. And crushed was the right word. For Ronan was not the only one equipped with a silver collar!

Cursing and spitting ichor, the vampiress fled. Ferny could hear doors slamming. Then there was a horrified scream. The holy water, no doubt, thought Ferny, amused. For he had carefully balanced a bucket of the holy liquid above the front door before entering. As per Ronan's intructions.

'Ronan!' the halfling cried, remembering his boss. 'Hey, boss, are you all right?'

Hapless sight met the halfling's look of concern. Ronan was standing with his face pale and drawn, shivering from head to toe. His left hand was pressed against his throat, his right, against his heart. He looked at the halfling without recognition. But slowly, slowly, an understanding dawned.

'Did it work?' asked Ronan in a hoarse whisper.

'You are out of her grasp,' noted Ferny. 'Which means she is dead or dying. For only via a Lahmian's death can a thrall be freed. Or so you have taught me.'

'Yes, that's true... Have you, have you finished her off then?'

'Not yet. I wanted to make sure you're all right. You are all right, right? No infection, no sudden urge to bite people???'

'No, I'm all right,' sighed Ronan, sagging down to a luxurious sofa. He took out a kerchief and bind his throat. It did not bleed too much. 'The Lahmians cannot infect men with vampirism, only women. Strange, but lucky for us. And besides, my blood contains so much garlic, that I doubt even a regular vampire could have infected me.'

'Right,' said Ferny, though he looked uncertain. 'So I'll just go and finish the wench off then...'

The finishing off took it's time. To be doubly sure, Ferny sawed off the Lahmians head, stuffed her mouth with garlic, burned her body, and then went and buried the head under a nearby crossroads. He was sweating profusedly when all was finally done. Then he returned to Ronan.

Ronan was looking decidedly better. Some colour had returned to his cheeks and he had stopped shivering. He still did not look like the flippant, self assured hunter of old. There was a haunted look in his eyes.

'You okay boss?' asked Ferny once again.

'Yeah. You got the wench?'

'Oh yeah. She'll not be coming back, I assure you.'

'Good. You know something...'

'What's that boss?'

'When I said the Strigoi were the most dangerous of vampires, I was wrong, Ferny. They're not. The Lahmians are far more dangerous in their own way.'

'I did tell you, boss. I did say they were devious. But we did get her, did we not?'

'Yes, we did. Thanks to you. Had I been alone, It would have been a different story.'

'Yeah, granted, but surely you would not have gone against a vampire without help, right?'

'Do not be so sure, Ferny. I might just have taken the risk. You know me... Still, what's done, is done. Time to go, I surmise.

'What's the rush?' inquired Ferny from a mantelpiece where he had climbed to admire a genuine silver candlestick. 'I thought we had completed the set...'

'It is time to go to Altdorf, Ferny, to the witch hunter headquarters. It's time we made a full witch hunter out of you.'

'Really, boss?' cried Ferny, the silverware forgotten. For the moment, anyway...

'Really. You have destroyed a vampire on your own. You cannot give higher proof of your abilities than that!'

'All right! But boss?'

'Yeah?'

'If I am to be a full witch hunter, I'm not going to stoop to menial tasks. Ever again. I hate sweating! It makes me stink some horrible! You get what I'm saying?'

'Fair enough,' said Ronan, cracking a smile. 'We take a henchman along. You can make HIM sweat!'

'Brilliant!' cried Ferny, happy to see his boss smiling again. 'By the way, Do you mind to if we stick around a while. I mean this place is filled to the rafters with the best of booty! We can make a fortune out of it!'

'Sure,' said Ronan, nodding. 'And we are going to need the fortune if we are to hire a henchman. They do not come cheap these days. Hmmm. You know, This place really does look stuffed with priceless objects d'art, Ferny. Maybe we could even buy a coach. What say you to that?'

'Brilliant idea, boss,' grinned Ferny. 'For I do hate riding!'


The End


**************************************

And so the witch hunter chronicles is complete! Well, it has been fun to write fantasy for a change! Till next time! Bye!