‘Sigmar’s business, initiate,’ said Holmann, showing his chain of office. ‘Open up.’The priest peered peevishly out through the bars, holding up his lantern and revealing an ugly, wart-studded face, then sighed and took out a jingling iron ring of keys. ‘I don’t know what ye want with our lot, witch hunter,’ he sneered. ‘They don’t respond to torture.’‘It isn’t your charges I wish to speak with,’ Holmann growled. Ulrika smirked as the priest paled and hurried more quickly with the lock, his gloved hands shaking with fright. They had had less trouble getting through the Altestadt wall than winning entry into the cemetery. The guards at the High Gate had waved them through without a second glance – a much easier entry than her previous attempt. She might be able to climb walls, but a witch hunter could pass through them with nothing but a glare and a wide-brimmed hat. She had walked to the cemetery with Templar Holmann through the spire-hemmed streets of the temple quarter, and though she had feared the journey, had felt not a twinge of fear or pain.
