“Can you pay, Herr Doktor?” he asked nervously. Felix could see the man’s Adam’s apple moving.

“I am not a professor, I am a poet,” he said, producing his thin pouch and counting out his few remaining gold coins. “But I can pay.”

“Food,” Gotrek said. “And ale.”

At this the old woman burst into tears. Felix stared at her.

“The hag is discomfited,” Gotrek said.

The old man nodded. “Our Gunter is missing, on this of all nights.”

“Get me some ale,” Gotrek said. The innkeeper backed off. Gotrek got up and stumped over to where the peddlers were sitting. They regarded him warily.

“Do any of you know about a black coach drawn by four black horses?” Gotrek asked.

“You have seen the black coach?” one of the peddlers asked. The fear was evident in his voice.

“Seen it? The bloody thing nearly ran me over.” A man gasped. Felix heard the sound of a ladle being dropped. He saw the innkeeper stoop to pick it up and begin refilling the tankard.

“You are lucky then,” the fattest and most prosperous-looking peddler said. “Some say the coach is driven by daemons. I have heard it passes here on Geheimnisnacht every year. Some say it carries wee children from Altdorf who are sacrificed at the Darkstone Ring.”

Gotrek looked at him with interest. Felix did not like the way this was developing.

“Surely that is only a legend,” he said.

“No, sir,” the innkeeper shouted. “Every year we hear the thunder of its passing. Two years ago Gunter looked out and saw it, a black coach just as you describe.”

At the mention of Gunter’s name the old woman began to cry again. The innkeeper brought stew and two great steins of ale.

“Bring beer for my companion too,” Gotrek said. The landlord went off for another stein.

“Who is Gunter?” Felix asked when he returned. There was another wail from the old woman.

“More ale,” Gotrek said. The landlord looked in astonishment at the empty flagons.

“Take mine,” Felix said. “Now, mein host, who is Gunter?”

“And why does the old hag howl at the very mention of his name?” Gotrek asked, wiping his mouth on his mud-encrusted arm.

“Gunter is our son. He went out to chop wood this afternoon. He has not returned.”

“Gunter is a good boy,” the old woman sniffled. “How will we survive without him?”

“Perhaps he is simply lost in the woods?”

“Impossible,” the innkeeper said. “Gunter knows the woods round here like I know the hairs on my hand. He should have been home hours ago. I fear the coven has taken him, as a sacrifice.”

“It’s just like Lotte Hauptmann’s daughter, Ingrid,” the fat peddler said. The innkeeper shot him a dirty look.

“I want no tales told of our son’s betrothed,” he said.

“Let the man speak,” Gotrek said.