The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)

IV - The Sin of Avarice

In the end, it all comes down to a simple fact - to do as Phillipe suggests would be to commit yourself to breaking the law, in full foreknowledge and with wilful intent, and that is not something you can allow. The law is not mere words on paper, but the very structure that holds together Sigmar's Empire, the bones upon which all civilisation rests. It is in the abstract a holy thing, and while there are arguments to be made about the righteousness or suitability of particular laws and ordinances, there is no such excuse for fraudulently taking another man's identity for the sake of stealing his inheritance.

"No. This man was the true heir to those lands, and I shall entertain no talk of usurping him," you say firmly, shaking your head as you tuck the documents away within the pocket of your leather coat. "I shall send word to Bogenhafen and inform these lawyers; likely there is a clause in the old Baronet's will to be followed in such circumstances, or else some local ordinance to guide them."

Phillipe has a sour look on his face at that, but in the end he simply sighs and nods. "Very well, then. A shame, but if you will not be convinced, there is nothing else for it."

"Come, let us return to our travelling companions," you say, turning away and making for the treeline, "they shall be wondering what has become of us by now. Likely we can find a road warden outpost at the next inn, and then-"

Phillipe rolls Ranged (Blackpowder). +40 for point blank, target is 100, roll is 15, success with 9SL. Damage is 9 +9SL -5 Toughness = 13 wounds. Markus has 5/18 left.

The bullet slams into you like a strike from Sigmar's own hammer, driving all breath from your lungs and strength from your legs in a single moment. You stagger, boots sliding in the mud, and one knee hits the ground hard enough to send jolts of icy pain racing up your spine.

"I am sorry, my friend," Phillipe says in a sombre tone, sincere as you choke on pain and the acrid stench of black powder, "but twenty thousand crowns… I will make a donation to a temple of your god, help you sleep better in the garden."

You grit your teeth, clench your fist. Rage pulses through you, fury so bright and fierce it banishes the agony of the shot and the pain of betrayal, and with a grunt you force yourself back to your feet.

"How will you do that," you growl, turning to face him with fire in your eyes, "when you rest in a traitor's grave?"

"...your resilience is truly impressive," the Bretonnian says with a frown, his dark eyes intent as he holsters his pistol and reaches for his sword, "Do they grow men in these lands, or orcs with pale skin?"

You lunge, reaching out with gloved hands to seize your foe and cast him to the ground before he can draw his blade, but Phillipe is a veteran soldier and scrambles clear before you can get a decent grip. He draws his narrow blade and swings it for your torso in a single fluid motion, and it is only rawest fortune that allows you to slap his hand in time to keep the steel from your flesh.


Fighting a swordsman with bare hands alone is an elaborate form of suicide, and so with a growl you step back and pull your own weapons free. Phillipe seeks to take advantage of your momentary distraction, darting in with a low strike at your legs, but you expected as much and turn the blow aside with your dagger. The impact makes your wounds ache, but now it is your foe who is exposed, and with a fluid motion you lift your sword and draw a narrow cut along the man's left arm.

Phillipe barks in pain, staggering back, and in that moment you see your chance. The dagger rises, chasing the retreating blade, and with a jerk and savage twist tears through the meat of the Bretonnian's right arm just above the elbow. Blood gushes forth like the spring rain, turning the dirt underfoot to thick and choking mud, and with a breathless little gasp Phillipe falls to his knees.


For a moment you hesitate, stepping back and eyeing your fallen foe. His face is pale, his arm soaked in blood - you must have nicked a vein, you think, the kind of injury that could very easily kill a man so far from the city and its doctors. Perhaps you could patch it up yourself, obtain his surrender and bring him in for trial, end this without death… but what would be the point? He just attempted to murder a noble of the Empire. He shot you in the back. The only choice now is if he dies here on the road or at the end of a hangman's rope.

"We could have been friends, you sorry bastard," you mutter, and before Phillipe can muster the wit or will to respond, you step forward and drive your sword through his heart.

Leaving the blade in place, you sheathe your dagger and step back, awkwardly reaching behind your back and under your coat to prod at your injury. It hurts like hell itself, as if some foul spirit has replaced your bones with molten lead and set your flesh afire, but you can feel no blood nor detect any broken bones. The shot must have failed to penetrate the leather of your coat somehow, a salvation you will be sure to thank Sigmar for when next you pass a suitable shrine. More immediately relevant, the lack of a bleeding wound means you will not be forced to attempt first aid upon yourself on a muddy road in the Reikland forests, which is of truly great relief.

Turning your attention back to Phillipe's corpse, you tug the sword free of his chest with a wet rasp and wipe the blade against his embroidered top. Next you reach down and claim his pistol and spare shot, and after brief hesitation his coin purse as well. You're no common bandit, but the weapon will serve you well, and there is no good to be served by leaving the coins to rest with a fallen traitor.

Walking stiffly, your back protesting with every errant motion, you make your way over to the two horses still entangled in their harnesses, recalling the lessons of your youth as you seek to calm and inspect them in turn. The first has a broken leg, far beyond your ability to fix, while the second at least seems in good condition. You free that one from the remnants of the harness and guide it over to a small pool of water by the far side of the road, before returning to the first with a dagger drawn to put it out of its misery. That seems to be the best you can hope to do these days.

"At least I saved one creature today," you mutter to the horse in a low voice as you return to her side, laying a gentle hand upon her muzzle and guiding her towards the trees, "Come on, girl. Let's get back to the others and leave this place behind us."

You depart without a backwards glance, feeling the weight of dead men's gazes upon your ruined back.

-/-

The Seven Spokes Inn is the next facility of any size along the Altdorf road, and though it is nearly dark by the time your reduced party manages to limp through the gates you are grateful for the respite. The horse you brought back was enough to get the coach moving again, at least when paired with two more from the original compliment that returned on their own initiative, but you never did find the coachman they'd dragged off into the woods first. You can only hope for the sake of Hultz's soul that he died swiftly, perhaps from a broken neck, instead of meeting any of the myriad fouler fates that might befall a man alone in the woods.

The road wardens keep a small outpost at the inn, and they are only too happy to take your testimony along with that of the other passengers when you arrive. The sergeant on duty, a tough looking fellow with a long forked beard, assures you that he will send a patrol out at first light to retrieve the bodies, and that the Inn maintains the facilities to hold the dead until one of the roving priests of Morr can arrive to conduct the proper rites. It feels a paltry effort, especially considering their absence likely had much to do with the ambush being possible in the first place, but you are in no hurry to upbraid the men for their work. Leave that to their officers, or perhaps their priests.

There are three other coaches staying the night at the inn, enough to make the whole place bustle with activity, but nobody approaches you as you take a seat in the common room with a small flagon of watered ale. Few people can muster the courage to bother a witch hunter in a bad mood, and given what happened today you are in no mood to approach any of them in turn. Instead you sit and nurse your drink, keeping an ear out for any interesting gossip. Most of it concerns you and your party, of course, but the talk that grows out of such topics is still interesting. Apparently one of your order burned the village of Teufelfuer to the ground recently (unlikely, if only for reasons of manpower), and your encounter with mutants and bandits is far from unique. People are speculating that the Emperor has cut the road patrol's budget, perhaps diverting it to the State Army in the wake of some incident down near Ubersreik.

Your ruminations are interrupted by the approach of the small, mousy girl you saw attending to Lady Isolde, who swallows nervously before curtsying in front of you.

"My Lord von Bruner," she says in a quiet and formal voice, "The Lady von Strudeldorf wishes to express her gratitude, and invites you to join her at her table."

You grunt wordlessly in acknowledgement and rise to your feet. Not that you are feeling particularly sociable, of course, but you were raised with better manners than to just brush off a lady entirely. Moving across the common room to join the lady in question at her table is a complex and uncomfortable process with your back so swollen and bruised, but you manage it all the same.

"Lord von Bruner," Lady Isolde says with a polite nod as you settle yourself down, her towering bodyguard shifting position slightly to stand between the two of you and the rest of the tavern, "I apologise, I did not realise you were injured. Janna tells me there is a physician in residence here if you require treatment."

"A glancing blow, my lady," you say roughly, shaking your head and shifting in your seat, "nothing to concern yourself with, I am sure."

Isolde's eyebrows rise at that, a perfect golden arc that stretches across her pale brow. "I see. I would not have thought a man so used to violence would turn his back upon the enemy."

"Not knowingly, no," you say grimly, and watch as Isolde's eyes drift down to the second pistol you now wear in a strap across your front. She knew Phillipe was dead, of course, for you left with him and returned alone, but now her pale blue eyes narrow as she puts together the likely answer to how. Not that she will say anything, of course. It would be terribly gauche.

"I have booked seats aboard a Four Seasons coach for the final leg of our journey to Altdorf, as Ratchett Lines seems unlikely to bear us hence until a new driver can arrive," she says instead, folding one hand atop the other on the table between you. "You are welcome to ride with us, if you wish. It would hardly be appropriate to ride alongside as you did today, not with an injury that pains you so."

"Your consideration is most kind, my lady," you say carefully, studying her for any sign of motive. If she has one beyond the obvious it escapes you, though that is no great surprise - a noblewoman worth the name learns to hide her heart behind a polished mask early in life. "I would be honoured to accept."

"It is hardly any great sacrifice on my part," Isolde says with a thin smile, "Merely the proper thing for one of our shared station… though I suppose you would know more about that than I."

You pause at that, hearing the weight behind her words. For a moment you consider feigning ignorance, or perhaps deflecting with some other topic, but what would be the point? "I see. I suppose you recognised my name, then?"

"It is rather infamous," Lady Isolde says, inclining her head in what might be an acknowledgement or an apology. "The von Bruner line is old and respected, but when one of their lords is taken and burned, and his eldest son disclaims his inheritance in favour of the Templar's cause… well, even the most modest of tongues might wag."

"I suppose they might," you sigh and close your eyes, suddenly feeling terribly tired, "but you'll forgive me for not wishing to dwell upon it."

"Of course," your fellow noble says with an understanding smile, "I merely wished to express my admiration. It takes a rare man to do what you did."

You stand then, almost before you can think, and distantly you realise that your hand has balled into a fist. "Forgive me, Lady Isolde, but I am tired and my injury pains me. I shall see you on the morrow."

"I… oh," the Drakwalder blinks, clearly somewhat hurt, "Yes, of course. I wish you a pleasant night."

You allow yourself a bitter smile at that, and without another word turn away and make for the stairs. A rare man indeed. Would that you were nothing of the kind, or else worthy of the admiration so many seem keen to heap upon you. Truly, the world would be a better place for either.

Article:

Markus is a man given to introspection, and today has given him much to brood upon. What does he ultimately choose to blame for Phillipe's death?

[ ] Foreigners
Bretonnians are strange folk with strange ideas, and it was that unfamiliarity that led Markus to misjudge Phillipe's intent. He will think twice before turning his back on a foreigner in future, and scrutinise them more intently before extending any trust.

[ ] Commoners
A noble would have understood the necessity of truth and adherence to the law, or at the very least would have challenged him to a duel or in the courts. Only a man of lowly birth would think of shooting a man in the back, and Markus will remember their lack of character going forward.

[ ] Mercenaries
A man who fights for nothing more than gold will do anything if it means increasing his share thereof, and it was Markus' assumption of shared zeal and principle that blinded him to treacherous intent. Duty, honour and ideals can be trusted, mere professionalism or greed cannot.

[ ] The Dark Gods
It is the Tempter that places the love of gold in men's hearts, the Changer that bids them dream of elevating their station through trickery and deceit. Markus will count this a lesson well learned, and be alert for any sign of such foul and insidious influence among his companions in the future.

[ ] Himself
A man answers to Sigmar in the end and himself alone before that. Markus could have avoided this by paying more attention, thinking outside his own narrow perspective, doing more and being better. Unflinching self-critique is the only way to improve.