By C. L. Werner
In the shadows of the bleak medieval outdated international, the sinister brokers of darkness plot the downfall of the civilised nation-states. Their numbers are unknown and their masters can merely be guessed at, yet they're legion and they're lethal. To strive against the insidious hazard, the previous international has drawn upon the providers of witch hunters -- ruthless males who've committed their lives to weeding out the evil with the land!
The writer of the Brunner novels, CL Werner, confirmed off the abilities of witch hunter Mathias Thulmann within the first novel during this sequence, Witch Hunter. Now Thulmann is again and the stakes are even larger!
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From the corner of his eye, Thulmann saw a withered apparition appear from the shadows around the bookcase. The gaunt, unspeakable form lunged at him with impossible speed. Talons, black and hard like the backs of beetles, reached for Thulmann’s throat. Instinct saved the witch hunter’s life, as he threw himself over the desk, spilling the ruined corpse of Wolfram Kohl onto the 36 floor. In his wake, claw-like hands splintered the wood of the desk, shredding it as though it were paper. Thulmann rolled onto his back, aiming and firing his pistol in one smooth motion.
40 “Very well, Mathias,” Silja replied. “But tell me why you take so much responsibility onto your shoulders? ” Thulmann shook his head. “I’ve seen enough to know there’s a brain inside that pretty noggin of yours, even if it doesn’t have the good sense to keep out of a vampire’s reach,” Thulmann told her. “But you are not of the Order of Sigmar. You are an agent of the secular authority, not a representative of the temple. The only men trained to find the vampire’s hiding place are the witch hunters, and they will not follow you.
A saw-edged sword hung from a rope tied about each of their waists, the steel so rotten with filth that Weichs suspected any man struck by it would die from infection long before he expired from his wounds. Between the two black-furred killers strode a third skaven. The ratman hobbled forward on a gnarled staff, the crown of which was tipped by an ugly triangular iron icon representing the loathsome god of the ratmen. The ratman’s frame was crook-backed, crushed by the weight of age. A black robe clothed its body and about its neck was a vibrant collar crafted from scraps of multicoloured fur.