by C. L. Werner
‘Maybe it is because your son charges three pieces of copper to let anyone come down here,’ Brunner replied. Tessari drew himself up as straight as his frame would allow.
‘Hmph! That bastard! I should have brained him when he was a babe in arms!’ The mutant leaned toward the bounty hunter. ‘Do you know that that rascal has started letting children pay their way down here? “See the Beast in the Cellar”, let the urchins have their morbid little eyes gawk at my affliction.’
‘I came here to ask what you knew about Ennio Volonte and Goffredo Bertolucci,’ the bounty hunter snapped. ‘There was a time, before your affliction, when you knew quite a bit about everyone in Miragliano. But perhaps the rot has crawled into your brain as well as your hand.’ Brunner rose from the chair, but Tessari’s human hand beckoned him to sit once more.
‘Not going to grace me with the pleasure of human company and a few kind words?’ the mutant asked, his voice heavy. Noting the lack of compassion on the bounty hunter’s face, the mutant sighed. ‘You always were a ruthless bastard, Brunner. What do you want to know?’ Brunner leaned forward, his helm gleaming in the candlelight.
‘Bertolucci has fled Miragliano,’ the sharp voice of the killer rasped. ‘Where would he have gone?’
‘How can you be certain he has left the city?’ the mutant challenged.
‘Because if he hadn’t, Volonte’s men would have found him by now. Bertolucci, his son, Volonte’s daughter and about twenty of his household have vanished. Almost as if the Chaos gods plucked them from his villa and whisked them away to the Wastes.’
‘Bertolucci does not have much money,’ Tessari mused. ‘After this thing with Volonte, he is almost as badly off as myself. Now where might he go?’ Tessari turned his face to stare into Brunner’s eyes. The palm of his human hand was turned upwards. Brunner placed a pair of silver coins in the mutant’s hand.
‘In better days, many of the wealthy families of Miragliano kept villas in the country, before the beastmen and the orcs drove them back into the stink of the city.’ The mutant laughed, the sound dry and moist at the same time. ‘The Bertoluccis had a villa somewhere to the north of here, a winery as I recall. Perhaps he has decided that the dangers of the city outweigh those of the country. Perhaps he has gone home.’
‘Thank you,’ Brunner said, plucking the coins from Tessari’s hand. The mutant sat bolt upright, snarling at the bounty hunter. His face twisted into something as bestial as his tentacled hand.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back,’ Brunner said. ‘You’ll get paid when I return.’
‘Do you actually think Volonte is going to pay you for killing Bertolucci?’ the mutant sneered. ‘Did he tell you why he wants Bertolucci dead?’
Brunner turned back towards the mutant. ‘Something about his daughter and a broken business deal.’
Tessari laughed again, the sound both louder and more liquid-laden than before.
‘Is that what he told you?’ the mutant gasped between cacklings. Volonte’s daughter and Bertolucci’s son had for months been secretly attending one another in the long hours before dawn. They are in love, you see. But that toad Volonte was not about to give away his only daughter without a substantial profit. I think the reptile had thoughts that he might marry her off to some petty lord and thereby ooze his way into the noble classes. Be that as it may, he at last relented, but only on condition that Bertolucci allow Volonte into a business dealing that promised a great reward.
‘Spices. Spices from Araby, Brunner, worth their weight in gold. That was what Volonte wanted. For his consent to the marriage, he was allowed to invest in Bertolucci’s enterprise, though the moneylender forced Bertolucci to squeeze out all of the other investors. The money-hungry maggot could not bear the thought that other men might profit alongside himself. This destroyed Bertolucci’s reputation and made enemies of many that were once his friends. And many of those laughed when news arrived that the ship bearing the spices from Araby was lost—claimed by pirates, storm, or some horror of the deep. You can imagine that Volonte was the most upset of them all. He had lost his investment and the chance to marry his daughter to some great advantage. So now he sends you, the wolfhound, to bring his prey to ground and slake his thirst for retribution.’ The mutant’s eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight, studying the reaction his words had caused.
After a moment, the bounty hunter turned his back to the mutant.
‘I care not for the whys of it,’ Brunner said, stalking away. ‘Only that there is money waiting at the end.’
The countryside beyond Miragliano was rolling, hilly terrain, marked by isolated pockets of humanity, but, more often, vast stretches of uninhabited wildland. Streams and brooks snaked their way along the deep hollows between the hills, encouraging the thick woods that filled each of the valleys. To the north side of the boulder-strewn hills and their forested hollows was a great plain of sandy, level ground. Stands of thin, scraggly trees were scattered in clumps, sometimes only a few dozen, other times a few hundred, forming an irregular forest.
The occasional stretch of level, grassy earth showed where farms had once stood, or, more rarely, where some hardy peasant still fought to wrest a living from the land. A path of brown dirt snaked its way between the trees and rocks, passing each of the farms, deserted or occupied, a relic of the time when there had been peace and safety in the hills of Tilea.
Two travellers made their way along the path, haste warring with caution for mastery over their steeds. One of the travellers was a large man, his powerful body encased in a tunic of hardened leather further toughened by strips of steel riveted to the garment. A rounded helm covered the man’s head, the low cheek-guards fanning outward to join the rounded rim. A long sabre hung from a scabbard at his side and a heavy crossbow was strapped to the saddle of his horse. The man cast wary glances to right and left as they proceeded on their journey, his hard features betraying none of the fear that gripped him. There were things abroad, the soldier knew, things inhuman and unclean.
The other rider was mounted upon a short, shaggy-pelted burro. The little creature kept pace with its larger kin with great effort, its shorter steps causing it to fall behind several lengths before a brief burst of speed would bring it beside the horseman once more. No saddle graced the burro’s back, only a thick blanket of wool. Seated upon that blanket, her legs thrown across the left side of the animal, rode a woman dressed in a hooded robe of pure white. Her face, framed by the fringe of her hood, was not unhandsome, but the stamp of age was creeping into it, the first webwork of wrinkles trickling away from the corners of her eyes.
Elisia had been a priestess in the service of Shallya for most of her life. Her family had been taken from her by plague; a husband and three children lost to an outbreak of the dreaded red pox. Somehow, though she too had become ill, she had recovered, and in her survival had seen the mercy of the goddess. She had devoted her life to Shallya, joining a shrine deep in the countryside, catering to the needs of the poor peasants and farmers who braved the wild to feed the swarming cities. Somewhere, in the long years of healing the sick, tending the wounded and soothing the bereft, Elisia had discovered within herself another woman, a woman far different from the one whose life the red pox had ravaged.
The priestess brought her burro to a halt as the soldier reined in his horse. She looked up at the armed man, a questioning look on her face.
‘What is it, Gramsci?’ she asked. ‘Do you see the villa?’
The soldier kept his armoured head staring down the path even as he replied to the priestess. ‘There is a man on the road ahead.’ He pointed his finger toward a figure, only distantly visible, ahead of them upon the road. The horseman slapped the reins in his hand against his steed’s neck, urging it forward.
‘Stay here, sister,’ he called back as he left, ‘I shall see what he is about.’
Gramsci rode towards the man he had seen, scanning the trees and brush for any sign of lurking banditti. He doubted that any
brigands would be so bold as to attack a priestess, but it was not unknown for some follower of Ranald to return the contempt of Shallya’s followers with the edge of a knife.
‘That is close enough,’ a cold voice arrested Gramsci. The soldier came to a halt as the armoured man before him pointed a crossbow in his direction. Gramsci tried to peer at the face of the man, but it was hidden behind the steel mask of his Imperial-style helmet.
‘I mean you no harm, sir,’ Gramsci offered, raising his hands. ‘I am but escorting yon priestess upon an errand. Let us pass and we shall be upon our way.’
The bounty hunter stared at the soldier, then his attention turned away from Gramsci. The soldier stifled an annoyed groan as he heard the clopping steps of the burro draw up beside him.
‘It is true, sir,’ Elisia stated, not at all intimidated or threatened by the crossbow aimed at her. ‘I am a servant of Shallya on a mission of mercy to aid this worthy swordsman’s household. Please, sir, let us pass, for we bear you no threat.’
Brunner lowered the crossbow, striding back to the horses he had left tethered at the side of the road. ‘If your travel takes you north of here,’ the bounty hunter remarked as he returned the crossbow to a scabbard set into the harness of his packhorse, ‘I should advise you to turn back now. Just this afternoon, I was set upon by three beastmen. Their numbers will only grow when the sun fades.’
The bounty hunter’s words brought a gasp of alarm from the priestess, who for the first time noticed the slight limp in the bounty hunter’s gait, the small flecks of crimson staining his leggings. At her side, Gramsci glowered at the armoured killer, suspicion in his eyes.
‘And what became of these beastmen?’ the soldier asked. Brunner favoured him with a cold stare.
‘They will not trouble you,’ he said, ‘but I cannot speak for whatever friends they might have.’
‘What causes you to be abroad in the wilds alone?’ Gramsci persisted, trying to inch his hand towards the sword at his side. The bounty hunter’s eyes locked upon the slight motion. Gramsci scowled and let his hand drift away from the hilt of his blade.
‘My business is my own affair,’ Brunner stated.
Elisia interposed herself between the two men.
‘This fencing with words is pointless,’ she declared. ‘We are yet distant from our destination, are we not, Gramsci?’ The soldier, eyes and scowl still trained on Brunner nodded his head reluctantly.
Elisia turned to face the bounty hunter. ‘What you say about beastmen alarms me greatly, and it seems to me that you are just as far from shelter as we. Please, ride with us and make camp in our company this evening. We shall be safer with a second sword should the fell creatures chance upon us in the night. And I can tend your wound, for I see that you did not emerge from your combat unscathed.’ The priestess’s eyes were bright, pleading and hopeful. Brunner inclined his helmed head.
‘I shall join you, at least for the present,’ he said, striding back towards his animals.
‘And what are you named?’ Gramsci called at the bounty hunter, his voice betraying his belligerence and suspicion. The bounty hunter halted, one hand upon the horn of his saddle.
‘I am named Habermas,’ the bounty hunter said, raising himself into the saddle.
‘Then be warned, Habermas,’ the Tilean soldier continued. ‘Do not think to take advantage of us.’
Brunner turned the head of his steed, facing the Tileans once more. ‘If I did,’ the bounty hunter’s voice was as frigid as a Norse breeze, ‘you would not stop me.’
Brunner sat beside the fallen rubble of a chimney, all that remained of a long-departed farmstead. He let his gaze pass warily from the dark shadows beyond the light of the fire the priestess and her companion had started. He locked eyes with the scowling Gramsci, then let his stare linger on the tired, frightened features of the priestess. He let his hand rest for a moment on the compress the woman had pressed against the injury in his leg. Elisia did good work, the bounty hunter had to admit as he flexed his knee, noting only the faintest trace of pain. It was just as well for her that he had discovered them. And just as well for him, if their destination was the one that he suspected.
‘Still annoyed by my fire, Habermas?’ Gramsci snorted from his place beside the fire pit.
‘I have already told you that it is unwise,’ the cold voice beneath the steel helm responded.
The Tilean soldier favoured the other warrior with a friendless smile, heedless of the fact that the man was not looking at him. ‘A good fire will keep any animal away. They fear flame. Anyone knows that.’
‘Your knowledge of woodcraft is quite good for a city dweller,’ Brunner stated. He focused his attention on a patch of shadow. His keen ears could not be certain, but had there been the whisper of a sound from there? The bounty hunter fingered one of his knives.
‘Is it possible that the question of the fire could be put to rest?’ asked Elisia, her patient temperament worn away by the long verbal skirmish.
‘This fool thinks the fire will drive away the haunters of the night,’ the bounty hunter said, almost under his breath, his eyes still focused on the shadow. ‘Beastmen are not so craven as wolves or wild cats. Far from keeping them away, your fire is attracting them. It is like a beacon letting them know that there is food to be had here.’
The priestess stifled a gasp as she heard Brunner’s words, so firm and sure was his tone. Gramsci just scowled anew, tossing another branch into the blaze.
‘If that is so,’ the Tilean said, ‘then where are they?’
In that instant, the darkness exploded into life as howls, bleats and whinnies sounded from the shadows surrounding the camp. The noise of hooves, feet and claws crashing through the underbrush told of the swift and hurried advance of many large bodies. A thin, whiny and inhuman voice shrieked above the clamour. ‘Skulls for the Skull Throne! Blood for the Blood God!’
The first beastman broke from the patch of midnight. A wiry brute with a mangy pelt of tawny fur, its face like a housecat, save for the glittering, multi-faceted eyes that gleamed in the dancing light of the campfire like two diamonds. A massive stone-headed axe was gripped in its long-fingered, clawless hands, a ghastly skull rune worked into the crude edge of the blade. The creature let a snarl, like the drone of a wasp, emerge from its fanged mouth as it sprang into the clearing. A moment later, the axe fell from slackened hands and the droning challenge faded into a bubbling gurgle as Brunner’s throwing knife sank into the fiend’s throat.
But even as the cat-beast died, its fellows swarmed into the camp: things with goat-like heads, others with dog faces, and still others sporting a twisted, almost human form. Brunner did not hesitate. He fell back toward his horses, sending another throwing knife whirling into the Chaos throng. The blade embedded itself in the long snout of a slavering hound-headed creature. The beastman dropped its swords to tear at the steel that had bitten into its face. A towering brute turned a goat-like face in the direction of the bounty hunter as it heard its fellow cry out in pain. The monster roared, pushing its companions aside to charge towards the knife thrower.
Gramsci rose from beside the fire, sword in his hand. A small beastman, its form more human than many of its fellows, its lope more steady and regular, fell upon the Tilean, smashing at him with a bone club. Gramsci’s blade slashed through the crude weapon, and bit through the forearm behind the cudgel. The beastman wailed in pain as gore slopped from the stump of its arm, a look of agony frozen on its features as a quick thrust of Gramsci’s blade pierced the monster’s heart.
But the soldier did not have time to savour the beastman’s death, for already more of its fellows had surrounded him, jabbing at him with spears, gesturing at him with rusted swords and stone axes. Fanged mouths drooled froth and spittle as the creatures of Chaos promised the soldier a bloody death in their inhuman voices.
Elisia fled from the fire and ran towards Brunner, instinctively hurrying to the side of the more capable of her two defenders.
As she did so, one of the beastmen, a smaller version of the goatheaded horror that led the throng, capered after her, snarling and snapping at her heels. The monster swung a heavy wooden club at the woman, missed, and raised its paw to try again. A cry of pain arrested its attack, and the brute rolled against the ground, clawing at the small crossbow bolt that had smashed into his breast. Elisia, with a last burst of speed, reached the bounty hunter, as he lowered the small crossbow pistol he had fired into the inhuman attacker.
‘I had meant that for him,’ Brunner gestured with the point of his sword at the huge goat-headed thing that was now so near that the stink of its lice-ridden fur brought tears to the priestess’s eyes. The bounty hunter handed the pistol to Elisia, pushing her behind him. The beastman’s yellow eyes narrowed as it watched its foe, its fanged mouth twisting in a parody of a smile.
‘Blood for the Blood God,’ it hissed, its voice low and rumbling. The monster stepped forward, the lengths of chainmail dripping from the crude hide armour that encased its twisted form swaying and clattering with its every step. A mask, daubed with the skull rune of Khorne clothed the monster’s face. Small lengths of chain had been driven into the brute’s horns, and from the end of each dripped a fresh human scalp. The monster slapped the massive axe into the palm of its left hand. No thing of wood and stone, but a weapon of bronze, haft and head, and it seemed to call out for blood.
Brunner gestured at the beast with his sword, a motion that he was certain this debased thing would interpret as challenge. The beastman showed the rows of fangs, wicked and sharp, gleaming in its muzzle. One of the smaller creatures that had gathered about their leader shrieked and leapt forward, a rusted sword in its hands. The hulking leader split its minion in half with a sweep of its axe, the bloodied debris thrown across the clearing. The meaning was clear: none but the goat-headed chieftain would be allowed to offer this skull before their gory god.