Emilia had left without much of a goodbye, leaving Adebar to wonder, to wager. She certainly was more sullen than he had thought, not exciting in the way he had hoped, but stirring more gallant motives in his heart of hearts. He’d waited for a while, before retiring back to bed, feeling a sudden rush of weakness coming on.

When he awoke Frau Zech had roused him, removing the tight bindings around his thigh. The cut looked to have healed, at least superficially, the bandages left behind a herbal smell the young nobleman couldn’t really draw much from. Doctors in Altdorf usually were more refined, preferring humoural treatments.

So freed, and feeling quite a bit more invigorated from his long rest, he roused himself and came to dress himself. His clothes had been washed and dried, the cut in his fine breeches stitched in a manner that spoke of care but did not hide the damage to the fine fabric, stains of red in the white material showing where his own blood had gotten. Washing out blood seldom worked, so he did not begrudge the woman her attempts.

Placing his cap back on his, now greasy and unwashed, hair, he decided that fine adjustments could be made later.

Von Bolstedt staggered down the stairs, into the taproom of the Black Boar. His arrival drew eyes, and a sharp exclamation of reprieve, then he was in the midst of townsfolk again, most of whom he’d not seen in the last few days. The Black Boar seemingly grew fuller and fuller with each day that passed, as word of his arrival spread.

Whispers rang in his ears. ‘A miracle,’ the peasants thought, ’a blessing that he is alive!’

He did not mean to rob them of their delusions, especially as soon as the first stein of dark, strong beer arrived in front of him.

Lots of things were said, it seemed he was the bearer of a town’s hopes.

He looked over to Zech, who looked happy with the customers, looked over to the merchant, Eitel, even the surly, blind-drunk Crippled Ed, who had previously muttered something about how it was harder to get alms when everyone was already spending coin on a saint, seemed content with his presence.

They expected something of him. Yes, it felt right to be here, to help these people.

Of course, Emilia was a major factor in his newfound heroism, but secretly he loved being adored like this, even if it was the desperate, fevered adoration of townsfolk who saw in him their only way for justice.

It was like a folktale, but this was real, and he intended on keeping it that way.

The door brought in a hurdle to his destiny.

Dressed in red and white raiments, head shaven, brown eyes framed by accurate, black eyebrows, entered a man who forced silence into the revellers all around.

The priest entered slowly, purposefully, eyes searching the room, narrowing when they found von Bolstedt at his table, surrounded by slack jawed townsfolk who instinctively made to slink away.

“So you are the man they call von Bolstedt.”

There was a tone of accusation, an arrogant presumption of authority that von Bolstedt found vexing and unquestionable at the same time.

It took him a while to formulate a strategy. It seemed his talk of a holy quest had reached the right ears.

“I am, holiness, and you would be?” The priest raised an eyebrow, seemingly unused to being replied to.

“I am Amadeus Heilkind, shepherd of this flock. As of late the flock has seemingly come to think it has found a new guard dog.” Thin lips showed no sign of malice, though the way the priest delivered his words spoke of malicious poison. “I have come to see whether there is any truth to that claim.”

As feared, then.

Before the bound eyes of the townsfolk, Heilkind began his examination.

“I hear tales of your prowess and skill at arms from some of my more pampered children. Do you think this a sufficient sign of Sigmar’s benevolence?”

A strange question. He needed to play his part confidently, but what to say? Sigmar was a warrior-god, so naturally a bit of martial skill, to him, was required? What had that old fool Hiesinger taught them in year one, the life of Sigmar…

“Partly, holiness, though our Lord’s treatment of his first adversary does teach us the value of respect and compassion. Why, I do believe this very establishment is named in honour of Blacktusk the Boar, no?” His eyes went to Gottlieb Zech, who looked at him a bit cluelessly, but nodded eagerly when Heilkind looked his way.

When the priest’s eyes returned, a chill ran down von Bolstedt’s spine. The priest was smiling.

“I see. You are studied in the scriptures, but knowledge cannot mean understanding, and theoretical readiness does not gird those of weak will against the trials of the holy man.”

The priest’s gaze wandered the room. The nobleman followed, finding the priest staring at a group of women, especially. “Did you know the Cult forbids the fleshly pleasures, von Bolstedt?”

The women now turned to look at him, a bit too dumbfounded to really look sorry about the potential loss of a good-looking young man.

“Of course I know of the practice of celibacy, it has been this way since the darkling days of the Black Plague!” He made a concerted effort to recall the wasted years of his studies. “If I do not err it was the Grand Theogonist Gazulgrund who decreed it so.”

The pale face of the priest grew darker yet, before he pressed the issue again.

“And you would face this trial?”

The room had grown truly silent, all attention on the two men now. Thoughts raced through Adebar’s head, seemingly intent on splitting his skull. It was as he’d just said, holymen were bound to celibacy. If he was so intent on courting Emilia, that wouldn’t do.

“I am no priest, holiness. I never claimed such a thing. I am inspired by Sigmar to do his will, no more, no less.” Damn it. What was he saying?! A flimsy excuse, a damn flimsy one at that, surely the priest wouldn’t just let him get away with that?

Alas, his opponent did not press his advantage. Heilkind seemed...less intense?

“And what would Holy Sigmar Himself demand of you?”

Well, that was simple enough. Holzer had made his mission so streamlined every drunk of Diesdorf had regurgitated it to him at least twice by now.

“To hunt the wicked and bring justice. Beginning with the killer of Gerda Vollsweg.”

This brought some murmurs of approval from the onlookers, before the priest silenced them with his sheer presence again.

“So you claim to be of the Order, a Witchhunter?”

This then, truly brought ice to his veins. The Witchhunters, usually of the Order of the Silver Hammer, or worse, were dreadful figures, even among the lofty circles of nobility. Judges of whole villages, hangmen of dozens, the authority these men could muster was often seemingly limitless, which wasn’t helped by the fact that they were sanctioned by the Cult of Sigmar itself.

He played with the buttons of his red doublet when he replied with a voice that shouldn’t have been so steady.

“No, holiness. Maybe the path of Wolfgart Krieger’s disciples will one day be mine, but today I cannot claim any affiliation with any order. I am just a man like any other.”

A man to whom Sigmar had spoken, of course. This was farcical, the priest seemed none too convinced, no matter how much trivial knowledge of clerical matters he demonstrated. He had told his father the filthy studied smarts wouldn’t get him anywhere, but alas, faced with studying theology or being kicked out of the house he had chosen the university then. Now that he had left home, the spent years seemingly wouldn’t get him anywhere after all.

The priest would proclaim him a fraud, he was certain. Surely his concern must’ve shown? Surely these people he’d just now deluded himself loved him would kick him out, call his bluff, tear him to pieces?

“I do not know whether Sigmar spoke to you, von Bolstedt.”

The words were the rasping of a saw on wood, though their contents betrayed a glimmer of hope. The priest’s features were as unreadable as those of a statue.

“It is for Him alone to know. Maybe His hand is indeed upon you.”

Heilkind turned away, throwing open the door to leave as promptly as he’d come.

“Remember, his duty never ends. Neither does ours.” The door fell closed, the priest was gone and Adebar von Bolstedt felt like he had glowing nails driven into his very bones, wondering how he had once more gotten away with his sacrilege.