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still dormant in their tombs, and avoided the quagmires of Grim Moor in the process. When they had finally reached the palisade walls of Uflheim that evening, the soldiery’s victory celebrations had drained every last barrel in the town. Most of the Talabheimers had to be kicked out of their beds the next morning. Von Korden ground his teeth at the recollection. Idiots all. It was premature indulgence at best, and a fatal mistake at worst.
    Now the crusade was back to marching through the thick of the Sylvanian gloom. The unnatural darkness had a way of getting to the common man, but the witch hunter found it strangely relaxing. Behind him, nearly thirty state troops marched as best they could along the road, Blaze’s warhorses taking shifts to pull the great cannon in their wake. It was slow going, and morale was sinking with every passing hour. Many of the men were already complaining about the grim conditions of the march. Von Korden snorted in disdain. If a bit of mud and twilight was such a problem, then Sigmar help them when night fell.
    Eben Swaft, the sergeant of the Sons, walked up level with the witch hunter. His gaze was fixed on the road ahead.
    ‘So tell me again the reasons we’ve split our forces up?’ the sergeant asked casually, flexing the blade of his rapier with a gloved finger. The witch hunter sized him up with a sidelong look. Swaft was a large man, and his body was tattooed so thoroughly with Sigmar’s Triumphs it would impress a Marienburg stevedore. Yet despite his muscular build, even when walking through thick mud the swordsman showed the poise and balance of a born duellist.
    ‘It’s as simple as you are, Swaft,’ the witch hunter growled. ‘Volkmar wanted to investigate Fort Oberstyre, whereas I thought that was a foolish waste of time and manpower. I’m going to Konigstein and that’s that. You rabble are coming with me.’
    ‘But… he’s the Grand Theogonist. The spiritual descendent of Sigmar himself, and all that.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘And surely what he says goes? Especially for one of you witch-botherers, right?’
    Von Korden wheeled around to face Swaft, grabbing the man’s rapier by its razored blade and stepping inside its reach so the soldier could smell his breath. Blood dripped from between the fingers of the witch hunter’s gloved hand as the sword cut deep. In the mud below, leechworms writhed.
    ‘Listen to me, you self-satisfied little shit,’ hissed von Korden, ‘Oberstyre is riddled with ghosts, and not the kind you learned about at your grandmother’s teat. The last garrison of state troops that spent the night in its allegedly deserted chambers got ripped to pieces. Since our friend Count Mannfred has a twisted sense of humour, their tortured spirits are now bound into its walls alongside their killers. Perhaps you want to join them, eh?’
    The swordsman recoiled a little, but to his credit he stood his ground.
    ‘With respect, sir, I never thought of you as a yellowgut.’
    Von Korden swelled visibly, eyes staring death and nostrils flaring. The witch hunter bent the duellist’s sword close to breaking point, droplets of blood running fast down the blade. His other hand whipped upward, the point of a filleting knife less than a finger’s width from Swaft’s eye.
    ‘Konigstein is within the prowling grounds of Helman Ghorst, Mannfred’s accomplice,’ he said coldly. ‘If I get the necromancer under my blades, I’ll have the path right to von Carstein’s coffin within the hour.’
    The witch hunter breathed out, lowered his knife and pushed the swordsman’s rapier away. He nodded towards its blooded blade. ‘Swords?’ he sneered. ‘Lances? Useful tools against Ghorst and his corpse-puppets. Bugger all use against ghosts. I found that out the hard way, boy. Faith’s the only weapon they fear. And Volkmar and his maniacs have plenty.’
    ‘Right,’ said Swaft, slowly and carefully. ‘Well, that does make some sense, I suppose…’
    Von Korden