Rannick had tired of waiting. Time was slipping away. The sleeping draught he had given to the hounds would soon expire. He had to retire the count and be gone before the Black Crowe could mount a counter move.
'Turn,' Rannick's voice was ice as the count faced him, shocked at the intrusion.
'I am the Living Shade, greatest assassin in all of Luccini and Tilea and I have come to kill you,' he announced.
The count's shock turned quickly to defeat as his shoulders slumped and his face fell.
'There is no escape for you.' Rannick told him, the lavender stench pricking at his nostrils. 'I'm barring the only door, it is shut tight and no guard or hound will hear you.'
'Then it ends at last.' the count sighed with resignation. 'I have survived eight assassination attempts. You are the first to breach my inner sanctum and live.' he told him and then added, 'Can I ask whom it was who ordered my execution?'
'I know not.' Rannick answered truthfully, slightly wrong-footed by the count's demeanour. He was used to crying, begging, offers of gold and jewels, even his victims soiling themselves. Not this cold-hearted pragmatism.
He had to make haste. He suspected the Black Crowe would have heard by now and would be on his way. He tensed his rapier arm and shaped for a death lunge into the count's throat.
'Wait!' the count urged.
This was more like it. Every mark was the same. They always beg.
'A final request.' the count added, 'to honour your achievement.'
That was vexing. This count was full of surprises. Rannick flicked up his rapier point slightly and nodded the count to go on.
'To join me in a final glass of wine.' he asked calmly. 'I have heard of your exploits, that you toast your victims before the final death strike. I would be honoured if you would grant me such an indulgence.'
Rannick scrutinised the count for a moment. He was a plain-looking man, not nearly as regal as his statuette in the ground floor lobby. It made him look honest. And after all he was beaten. He would have toasted him anyway. It was flattering to know that such an esteemed member of the community followed his work and held such a regard. Perhaps the count had tired of life and all its strains. That or he was mad.
'One glass.' Rannick told him, 'that one.' He pointed to that held in the count's hand.
Obligingly the count handed Rannick the glass and quickly poured another for himself.
'To your victory.' the count said.
'Indeed, and your health.' Rannick mocked, the glass almost touching his lips as a strange aroma assaulted his nostrils, faint amongst the cloying lavender.
Rannick threw the glass to the floor where it shattered violently.
'A trick.' Rannick whispered his eyes full of imperious hate. 'You hesitated. You wanted me to drink first. It is poison.'
'No, I...'
'You have failed, count!' Rannick proclaimed exultant. 'Little wonder you have ensnared so many of my trade, for you are indeed canny.' Secretly Rannick applauded him. He had got close. 'Now you drink.' he ordered at rapier point. It was a fitting end, poison the poisoner.
Reluctantly the count swilled back the wine, swallowing hard.
'At least you were slain by the best.' Rannick scoffed, waiting for his prey to keel over and foam at the mouth.
It didn't happen. Instead Rannick's head began to swim. He went to lunge but the rapier fell from useless fingers as he slumped unwillingly to his knees. His throat constricted, making it difficult to breathe.
'Would you like a hand?' the count offered innocuously.
Rannick saw a gold ring upon his finger, an emblem upon it, that of a bird in flight - a crow. One of the fingernails was badly chipped but now held firm like rock.
'You!' Rannick rasped. 'But how?'
'The air you breathe.' the Black Crowe explained. 'It is a slow acting poison to which this potion is the only antidote.' He indicated the wine glass. 'You triggered its container after you closed the door to the study. It's perfectly harmless after a few more minutes.' he explained. 'Alas, it is already in your blood stream.
The Count Banquo is dead. I killed him months ago, an exterior contract.' he added. 'I assumed his identity so that I might watch your movements better and learn of your ways as well as reap the benefits as a major power in the mercantile war.'
Rannick looked on incredulously, powerless and enraged.
'You see, I had to draw you out and this was the bait.' he gestured to his garb and disguise. 'That and the amateur dramatics at the Drowned Man. All designed to bring you here, to bring you to me.'
The Black Crowe drew closer, mere infuriating inches from Rannick's face.
'I have your title now, through arrogance and self-inflated flattery you have let it slip.' he told him darkly, watching as the last moments of Rannick's life drained away. 'Be wary of another man's cutlery indeed. But what of his glass?' the Black Crowe smiled, standing.
'It's not personal.' he said impassively. 'Never make it personal. You were merely an obstacle.' His tone was condescending and accusatory.
Rannick clenched his teeth, tears pouring down his face as he screwed up all of his willpower to speak for one last time.
'I am still the greatest assassin!' he spat through his agony.
'No, you're not.' the Black Crowe corrected. 'But very soon it won't matter what you think.' he added. 'In a few moments you'll be dead.'
The Black Crowe walked away, opening the door to the study. 'Still.' he said, turning, just visible in the corner of Rannick's eye, 'my thanks for not killing the dogs.'
SICKHOUSE
by C L Werner
THE ATMOSPHERE IN the dingy little cellar room was, if anything, even more stifling than the sweltering Miragliano streets overhead. Strings of wet linen had been set between the thick wooden posts that supported the tannery above the cellar, yet far from cooling the dank chamber they had served only to increase the humidity. Coupled with the rich stink of rotten vegetables and the other refuse that lay heaped in piles all around the chamber, the effect was not unlike entering one of the blighted swamps that crouched beyond the city walls. Certainly the cellar's lone denizen should not have looked out of place in such an environment.
The feeble creature that sprawled upon the rickety cot rolled onto his side, stretching a thin, wasted limb toward the small oil lamp that rested on the floor beside him. Thick, wormy digits that were more tentacles than fingers raised the flame, increasing the illumination within the miserable rat-hole. The mutant scowled as his visitor sank into the chair facing him without invitation. The creature muttered under his breath. Manners were often lacking in those who still deigned to visit Tessari the information broker.
'What you want to know will cost you two pieces of silver,' the mutant croaked. The man sitting in the chair smiled thinly at the crippled monster.
'And how do you know that, Snake-Fingers?' the visitor's harsh voice sneered. 'I haven't said anything yet.' There was a note of suspicion and challenge to the man's voice, an unspoken threat behind his words. Tessari leaned back, his eyes narrowing.
'There is no mystery to my price, bounty killer,' Tessari replied, putting as much distaste in the title as his visitor had in describing the mutant's affliction. 'I need two pieces of silver to secure a new supply of blankets before winter sets in. Therefore, whatever it is you wish to know, the price is two pieces of silver.'
For a moment, the bounty hunter was silent, as though pondering Tessari's price. At length, he nodded his head in agreement. 'Very well, cellar-rat, I am looking for the thief Riano. So far, I haven't been able to find him. Rats have ears, tell me what you have heard.'
'Have you tried searching the back rooms of the Maid of Albion?' Tessari inquired. 'Riano has done favours for the owner of that drinking hole in the past.'
'I've already looked there,' the bounty hunter snarled. 'Riano's nowhere in Miragliano.'
'How can you be certain?' Tessari pressed, his tones bubbling with interest. The wormy fingers of his ha
nd twitched in a loathsomely boneless fashion.
'Because if he was in Miragliano, I'd have found him already,' the bounty hunter retorted, his temper rising. 'It seems clear to me that you do not know anything, Maggot-Hand.' The killer began to rise from the chair.
'Don't be hasty!' Tessari cried out, surging forward, reaching toward the bounty hunter. 'Sit, and talk with me.'
'I've better ways to spend my time than wasting it down in this rat's den of yours,' the bounty hunter snapped. 'If you can't help me, I'll find someone who can.'
'The man you are looking for has left Miragliano,' Tessari called out to the killer's back, frightened by the prospect of being left alone once more within the dank cellar. 'If so, then he has gone somewhere he can lie low until the price on his head diminishes. Someplace he will feel safe.'
The bounty hunter hesitated, turning slowly, one hand gripping the weapon hanging from his belt. 'And where would that be?' he demanded. Tessari held out the less deformed of his hands, waiting until his visitor walked back and placed a silver coin in his palm. The bounty killer held the other one poised between his thumb and forefinger.
'I'll give you this one if your information is useful.' he informed the mutant. Tessari shrank back into his bedding.
'Riano grew up in the small village of Decimas,' the mutant stated. 'If he has fled Miragliano, he can only have gone back to Decimas, where he has many friends. Friends who might make things rather hard for men of your profession.'
'I doubt it,' the bounty hunter told Tessari, tossing the other coin to the mutant. The bounty hunter turned away once more.
'Wait!' Tessari cried. 'There is more, something else that would be of interest to a man like you.' The visitor turned back, glaring down at the deformed man.
'I grow tired of these games, lice-breeder,' the warrior hissed. 'What else do you have to say?'
Tessari's twisted face spread into an avaricious smile. 'It will cost you another silver piece.' The bounty hunter drew another coin from a pouch fixed to his belt, holding it once more between his fingers.
'There is another man looking for Riano, a bounty killer like yourself.' Tessari leaned forward, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. 'Would it interest you to know that two days ago another man was standing where you are now, asking me the same questions you've been asking?'
'Out with it, dung-eater! Who else is on Riano's trail?'
'Brunner,' Tessari told his visitor, enjoying the sudden unease that manifested upon the other man's features. The mutant grimaced as the bounty hunter returned the silver coin to its pouch. 'That was mine!' Tessari growled.
'And how much did Brunner pay for his information?' his guest demanded. Tessari glared at the other man, wormy fingers coiling like angry pythons. The bounty hunter smiled back. 'Since he has a head start on me, I'd be a fool to pay more than he did.' The man withdrew through the gloom of the cellar. Behind him, the twisted Tessari hurled obscenities at his back.
THE SUN HUNG high in the sky, glaring down from the azure plain, causing tiny ripples of heat to shimmer upwards from the scraggly brown grass below. The barren dirt and rock of the narrow road that crawled between the underbrush and the sickly trees had been baked to the solidity of granite, for in this season there would be no kindly rains to counterbalance the sun's tyrannical attentions. No birds flew upon the hot breeze, hiding within whatever shade they could find. The only sign of life was a large grey lizard, its long-taloned fingers clutching the sides of a large stone resting upon the road. The reptile's eyes were closed, its body bobbing up and down in repetitious motion as its cold flesh soaked up the blazing rays. Suddenly, the lizard's scaly lids snapped open and it cocked its head, listening to the vibrations that had disturbed it. With almost blinding speed, the reptile lunged from its perch, streaking across the road to skitter into the sanctuary afforded by a patch of yellowing brambles.
The rider whose approach had disturbed the creature paid its departure little notice, his steely eyes dismissing the lizard as soon as they had reacted to the sudden motion, then returning to their study of the road itself. Behind the rider, a ragged grey packhorse plodded, its back laden down with numerous packs and bags, and several things that were clearly sheathed weapons. The rider's mount, a massive bay warhorse, turned its head, seeming to glance sympathetically at its doughty companion. The rider gave a gentle tug on the reins, recalling his steed to its course. The sooner he found what he was looking for, the sooner all of them would be able to find rest.
The rider was a tall man, panther-like in his build. His features were solid, harsh and weathered, cold blue eyes squinting from the leathery face beneath his close-cropped brown hair. A suit of brigandine armour hung about his frame, a breastplate of dark metal encasing his chest. Weapons dripped from the belts that crossed his torso and circled his waist - the steel fangs of knives, the gaping maw of a pistol, the cruel edge of a hatchet. Upon one hip rested a huge knife with jagged teeth, a savage instrument which its owner had named 'the Headsman' in a moment of sadistic humour. From the other, its golden hilt fashioned in the shape of a dragon with outspread wings, was sheathed the warrior's longsword, the fabled blade named Drakesmalice. From the horn of his saddle, swinging from the leather straps that bound it in place, the rounded steel frame of the bounty hunter's sallet helm cooked beneath the sun's merciless attentions.
Brunner lifted his eyes from the road, glancing at the sign that stood beside the deserted path, its three fingers pointing in every direction save that dominated by the woods at its back. The killer smiled grimly as he noted the topmost sign. Scrawled upon it in charcoal letters was the word 'Decimas'. Brunner shook his head, looking away from the sign. As he did so, he noticed a sorry figure sprawled beneath the sign, almost hidden by the rock pile that formed the signpost's support. Brunner eyed the shape warily, watching for any sign of movement or breath. Without removing his eyes from the prone form, the bounty hunter drew his pistol and carefully dropped down from Fiends saddle. With cautious glances to either side of the path, the bounty hunter slowly walked toward the shape.
It was a man, dressed in the tattered homespun common to the peasants that populated the Tilean countryside. Brunner nudged the man's side with his steel-toed cavalry boot, watching the body for any sign of reaction. It simply rocked in its position. Putting more effort behind his thrust, Brunner pitched the body onto its back. The bounty hunter stepped away from the sight that greeted him, a gloved hand reaching to his face to keep the smell from his nose.
The man was dead, but neither beast nor man had claimed him. The swollen tongue that protruded from the corpse's contorted face had nearly been bitten clean through during the agonies that had gripped the man. Upon his skin were livid red boils, some nearly the size of Brunner's thumb, each weeping a filmy, scarlet pus. The bounty hunter continued to back away. He had seen too many bodies like this recently. The red pox had returned to Tilea, rampaging across the countryside, striking down all who tempted its pestilent attentions.
Brunner turned away from the corpse, eyes considering the bleak expanse toward the south. His destination lay in that direction, but if the sorry corpse at his feet had come from there, if the red pox was rampant in the south, then in all likelihood he would be making a wasted journey. The dead did not last long when the red pox was abroad, so long as there were still healthy men to burn the diseased corpses. It would be difficult to turn in a pile of ash and blackened bones if Riano had already been claimed by the plague.
The sound of a twig snapping spun the bounty hunter around, lifting him from his thoughts. Brunner cursed under his breath. Worrying about the red pox had made him careless, sloppy. His natural caution had been subordinated to concern about the plague that hovered about the land. The bounty hunter chastised himself. He'd been around long enough to know that a moment of distraction could often last for all eternity.
The creature that had caused the sound rose from where it had been crawling, realising that its stealth had been c
ompromised. It was a miserable, twisted shape, a rotten mockery of the human form. Ragged linen hung about its lean, wasted frame, tied about its waist with a length of rope. Its pallid skin was blotched with ugly red welts and crater-like scars, its face a broken shambles, crazed eyes swollen within their sockets, nose rotten away into a scabrous stump of cartilage. Upon its forehead, the miserable creature had carved a brand, three bloated circles, linked at their centres, each sporting a jagged arrow. The brand was the only vivid thing about the creature's face, weeping a vibrant green pus each time the thing drew a breath. But it was the object clutched in the creature's withered hand that arrested Brunner's attention - a fat-bladed shortsword.
The bounty hunter did not give the twisted abomination a chance to close upon him. With a single deft motion, he ripped his pistol from the holster resting across his belly and fired into the diseased abomination's rotten skull. Watery brain tissue erupted from the back of the creature's head as the bullet tore its way through. The plague-ridden thing did not cry out as its head exploded, but simply crumpled into the road with all the grace of a wilting flower.
The shot's echoes had yet to fade before the bounty hunter discovered that the diseased attacker had not been alone. Other twisted shapes scrambled into view, descending upon the road like a pack of jackals upon a fresh carcass. Some were similar to the one Brunner had put down, ragged, tattered figures that might have been men before their flesh was consumed by the unholy foulness which now claimed them. Several though had never borne the mantle of humanity, their feet ending in cloven hooves, their shapes clothed in mangy fur, their heads cast in the manner of goats and kine. Upon these monstrosities, too, was that pestilent brand, filthy pus drooling from the mark and caking the fur of the beastmen with reeking filth.
Warhammer - The Cold Hand of Betrayal Page 9