Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  The marquis had not shied from the sword in his younger years, and he had known knights who had been as steeped in blood as any Sartosan corsair or Norse reaver. But there had been reasons for the lives they took, a cause that ennobled their deeds, a chivalry that governed their actions. There was no such honour about the bounty hunter. Though he walked with death, like a comrade in arms, he did not respect it. Death was nothing more than a commodity to him, a ware to be traded at market.

  ‘I understood our business to be at an end,’ the bounty hunter rasped icily. Beside him, Sir Doneval tensed, one hand dropping to the pommel of his sword. The bounty hunter let his own gloved hand caress the butt of the pistol nestled against his belly.

  ‘There is another service I would ask of you,’ the marquis said, choosing to ignore the bounty hunter’s words. ‘I shall pay you twice what you collected for Lorca the Estalian and his brigands.’

  Brunner stared up at the seated noble. Silence lingered for so long that it seemed to become an almost tangible thing. At last he nodded his head, the gloved hand adopting a slightly more casual position on the butt of the pistol. ‘You have my interest,’ Brunner said at last. ‘Who do you want me to kill?’

  ‘Not who, but what,’ the marquis corrected. The bounty hunter’s eyes narrowed behind his visor, though from suspicion or interest, the noble could not be sure. ‘Yesterday, a band of orcs invaded my land, torched one of my villages, and murdered my peasants. I want you to track them down.’

  ‘I’ve fought orcs before,’ Brunner replied. ‘Their raiding parties come in many sizes. A horde numbers thousands and a warband consists of a single bull. I have no desire to trade swords with either.’ The bounty hunter touched a finger to the brim of his helm, turning on his heel to leave.

  ‘I do not ask you to kill them yourself,’ the marquis hastened to say, hoping to keep the killer from leaving. He wondered whether his men would be able to detain him. Fortunately the bounty hunter stopped and faced him once more. ‘I ask only that you lead my son and a company of my finest knights to these brutes.’

  ‘And if they number more than your men can handle?’ Brunner asked pointedly The kneeling Sir Doneval bit down the protest welling up in his massive chest.

  ‘I pay you only to track these monsters, not to fight them. If they are more than the men I send with you and my son can handle, you will return here, to await the reinforcements I have requested from the neighbouring domains.’

  ‘And who shall make the decision as to how many orcs are too many?’ Brunner asked, his sharp tone suggesting that he already knew the answer before it was given.

  ‘My son shall be in command, Brunner,’ the marquis replied, refusing to be intimidated in his own castle. ‘You shall defer to him in all matters of command.’

  Brunner stood still for a moment, and the Marquis de Galfort wondered if he would refuse the task. But at last the bounty hunter nodded his armoured head. ‘Very well, I agree to the terms. But it will be three times what you paid me for Lorca. More if I have cause to use my sword.’ The bounty hunter fixed the marquis with a penetrating gaze. ‘With orcs, one is never sure who is the hunter and who the hunted.’

  The company of horsemen rode from the yawning maw of the castle gate, the ponderous weight of armoured knight and barded warhorse causing the timbers of the drawbridge to shudder and creak. Fifty of the Marquis de Galfort’s knights and their lightly armoured squires had been delegated to accompany Etienne de Galfort and the foreign bounty hunter. The young de Galfort was certain that it was too many noble men to dispatch upon so rude a quest, positive that a dozen knights would be more than an equal for any brutish adversary. Brunner had refrained from commenting on the boy’s enthusiasm.

  ‘The thin column of smoke there on the horizon,’ Sir Doneval pointed a steel-clothed finger toward the south. Brunner followed the knight’s gesture. ‘That was the hamlet of Villiers.’

  The bounty hunter nodded. ‘What is the closest habitation to Villiers?’ the icy voice asked.

  ‘Of what concern is that?’ interrupted Etienne de Galfort. The visor of his helm had been lifted, exposing his smooth-featured, handsome face, and an eager gleam in his eyes. He did not flinch as the bounty hunter turned in his saddle and fixed him with a cold stare.

  ‘The orcs will head for the next closest village,’ Brunner explained. ‘With our horses, we should be able to engage them before they reach their destination.’

  ‘Such is your view on the situation,’ objected Etienne. ‘But what if the orcs do not proceed as you say? We shall have wasted our time, and worn out our steeds in pursuit of phantoms.’

  ‘At least we would be able to warn the peasants,’ Sir Doneval said. ‘They should be able to retreat back to the safety of your father’s castle.’

  ‘And shall we ride across the whole domain and warn every little hovel to pack its belongings and fly to the castle?’ Etienne de Galfort responded, shaking his head. ‘We would be weeks rounding up every miner, woodsman and shepherd.’ The young nobleman clenched his mailed fist. ‘No, we serve them best by running these monsters to ground before they can cause further harm.’

  Brunner leaned forward, the leather of his saddle creaking, the blue eyes behind the visor glaring at Etienne. ‘And how do you propose to accomplish this feat?’

  ‘We shall ride to the hamlet of Villiers,’ replied Etienne. ‘There you shall do what my father is paying you to do. You shall pick up the trail of the orcs and follow their tracks back to their lair.’ The nobleman snorted with contempt. ‘Then you will be free to pull back as we attend to the monsters.’

  Brunner spat into the dust of the road. ‘These are orcs on the march,’ he explained. ‘They have no lair. They sleep only when fatigue overpowers them, and lie where they fall. They can march for days without rest, and their wind will carry them longer than even the best of your horses. If you try to wear them down, they will wear you down, and fall upon you when you are tired, and most in need of rest. No, it is better to anticipate them, to lie in wait for them.’

  ‘I am in command here,’ Etienne snapped. ‘We ride for Villiers, and you will find the trail these orcs have taken. That is an order. This is a hunt, bounty killer, not some Tilean pirate prince’s game of skulk and dagger. I think you will find these monsters much less capable of matching Bretonnian vigour than you imagine.’

  So saying, Etienne reined his steed about and set it galloping down the southward spur of the track. The other knights and their squires followed. With a last, surly look at the castle and the aged marquis who had impressed him into accepting this task, Brunner turned Fiend, his own bay, about and rode after the line of Bretonnians.

  Old Marcel whistled a tune as he made his way down the rocky terrain, back toward the little mining camp. The heavy wicker basket of salt rocks was lashed to his back, but it was a weight the miner had borne many times, and he no longer even felt the burden except when it was no longer there. The Bretonnian thought about the meal his wife was preparing for him: the small fowl his young son had claimed with his bow the day before would make good eating after boiling over a small flame for the day.

  The miner suddenly pitched to the ground, misjudging his step. Marcel crashed onto his belly, skinning his knee on the loose stones, the rocks of salt spilling from his pack. He gave voice to a curse as he crawled toward the nearest of the crystals. But a deep, rumbling sound froze him in place. He turned his face to see what could utter such a harsh, unpleasant sound.

  Beady red eyes gleamed back at the man from a scarred visage of fangs and leathery green skin. The orc laughed again. It had not been a misstep that had tripped the old Bretonnian but a shove from the orc’s massive paw. Marcel began to crawl away from the hulking monster, noting with alarm the massive axe gripped in its other paw. The monster watched the man retreat. Marcel could see amusement fade from the greenskin’s eyes, and a cold look of death creep in. The orc uttered a low snarl and raised the huge axe, taking a step towards the old miner.


  The column of armoured men was silent as it emerged from the tree-lined trail that led to the smouldering remains of the tiny village. They had ridden hard from the desolation that had been the hamlet of Villiers. It was shortly after the knights had arrived at the site of the earlier massacre that a squire had spied the plume of smoke rising from the east. At once, the horsemen had set out at a gallop along the narrow track that slithered its way through the trees and grassy fields toward the looming rocky slopes of the mountains.

  Etienne de Galfort stared up at the severed head that watched the knights emerge from the wood. It was a grisly thing, the face nearly cleft in half by a gruesome cut that sank deep into the bone of the skull, the flesh darkened by flame. It had been spitted upon a crude spear, from which other ghastly talismans dangled, and swayed in the breeze from the smouldering remains of a large bonfire. The young nobleman’s expression was unreadable as he considered the hideous object. He raised a mailed hand to his face, and motioned with his other for a squire to come forward and bury the vile totem.

  It was a repetition of the scene they had found at Villiers: every building put to the torch. Butchered bodies lay strewn about the devastation. At the centre of each carnage, a great fire had been built from wood and debris ransacked from the dwellings, and before each fire had been placed a gory talisman of limbs and skulls.

  Etienne looked at the hulking figure of Sir Doneval beside him, the older knight’s face completely hidden within the great helm he wore. Then he cast a guilty glance at the bounty hunter. Brunner had dismounted and was examining the footprints exactly as he had done at Villiers.

  The footprints were all inhuman. They were sunk to a depth even a fully armoured knight’s weight did not manage. The feet were broader and shorter than human feet, so that even the smallest betokened an immense size. Some of the feet were shod, others were bare. Brunner had informed Etienne that there had been at least twenty-five individual orcs at Villiers, based upon the prints. Now he rose from a cursory examination and faced the nobleman.

  ‘This was the same mob,’ the bounty hunter declared. ‘No question. I have both three-toe and the one with the clubbed foot here. There can’t be two orcs with feet like that rampaging about in your father’s domain.’

  Etienne sighed loudly. He looked away from the bounty hunter, staring about the clearing. The lightly armoured squires had spread out, their bows held at the ready, their keen eyes scanning the trees. The knights were moving their steeds through the ruins, examining the handiwork of the orcs. The sight added fire to the outrage boiling in their hearts. Finally, Etienne turned towards Brunner.

  ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘We should have come here first. This is my fault.’

  Brunner stared back. ‘We might have saved these people, but the orcs would have only hit someplace else.’ The bounty hunter noted the confused look entering Etienne’s eyes. He hastened to explain. ‘You have to understand something about orcs. It is true they live for plunder and massacre. But above all else, they lust after battle. These totems, those bonfires, they are a challenge.’

  ‘But if they want to fight, why won’t they face us?’ Etienne demanded, his knightly pride insulted by the thought of such creatures questioning his courage.

  ‘Because whatever bull is leading this mob is no fool,’ Brunner said, spitting into the dust and ash. ‘An orc leader is a mixture of raw strength, charisma, and cunning. This one seems to have a bit more cunning than usual. He wants a fight, but he is smart enough to want a fight that he can win. He has maybe thirty orcs with him. You have fifty horsemen.’ Brunner let a harsh laugh escape his lips. ‘He might not be able to count, but he can certainly recognise a lop-sided pairing.’

  ‘Then what do we do?’ Etienne asked. ‘He won’t stand and fight, you say that tracking him would only wear us down, and if we don’t give chase, he’s just going to burn down every settlement in the domain!’

  The bounty hunter’s voice became a low, harsh whisper. ‘We split the force. We give him a fight more in keeping with what he is looking for.’

  Brunner rode at the front of the small group of horsemen. Five knights and their lightly armoured squires were ranged about along the trail behind him. The bounty hunter looked over at his side, meeting the gaze of Sir Doneval. The knight swatted a horsefly away from his face.

  ‘How long do you think it will take?’ the knight asked.

  ‘Not long,’ the bounty hunter replied. ‘We’ve been watched since we left the mine.’

  The killer’s words brought a startled gasp from the knight. He spun about in the saddle, scanning the trees and underbrush that lined the trail. ‘If they are out there, what are they waiting for?’ Sir Doneval demanded.

  Brunner let a short laugh rasp from his throat.

  ‘Oh, the boss of this mob is indeed a rare one,’ the bounty hunter said. ‘He’s holding them back until he is certain that Etienne isn’t following us. He’s making sure it isn’t some sort of trap.’

  ‘And when he is satisfied that Etienne isn’t coming?’ the knight asked.

  As if in answer, a black-fletched arrow shrieked out of the undergrowth, striking the knight’s armoured breastplate and bouncing from the metal. More arrows followed, some striking horses, others striking men. The knights, in their suits of metal plate, were immune to the fusillade of arrows, but the horses and squires were not so fortunate. Screams—human and equine—tore into the breeze.

  ‘Is there open ground near here?’ Brunner shouted at Sir Doneval. The knight nodded his helmeted head.

  ‘There is a clearing not far to the north,’ the knight shouted, pointing his sword towards the path. A second barrage of arrows sped from the shadows, accompanied now by the grunts and howls of the orc archers.

  Brunner lashed his horse into action, racing forward down the path, the knights and their retinue following his lead. Behind them, they left three squires, their bodies pierced by the orc arrows. One of the men, pinned beneath his maimed horse, shouted for aid. Sir Doneval did his best to ignore the squire’s plea. To turn back now would mean death to them both and the possible failure of the bounty hunter’s plan.

  A massive shape appeared in the road before Brunner. The orc was just over six feet in height, a double-bladed axe and a crude wooden shield gripped in his clawed hands. The skin of a bear covered his back and his body was encased in a hodge-podge of metal scraps and bits of chain and ring mail. A battered kettlehelm covered the brute’s head.

  The monster snarled, and leapt toward Brunner. The bounty hunter drew the pistol from his belt and sent a bullet crashing through the orc’s eye, into the tiny brain within his thick skull. The orc moaned, staggering into the middle of the road, his primitive body not understanding that it was dead. The massive shape was bowled under by the charging Bretonnian horses, their hooves smashing and crushing the thick bones underfoot.

  As the riders raced along the wooded trail, they could hear the savage cries and snarls of their foes. Brunner risked a look over his shoulder and could see massive shapes racing after them along the trail. One paused to hurl a spear at the retreating cavalry, the shaft just missing the hindmost knight.

  Ahead, the sunlight grew brighter; it was the clearing Sir Doneval had spoken of. Brunner lashed at Fiend for a final burst of speed.

  The clearing was wide, with a small mound at its centre—a tomb of some long lost tribe. A small circle of standing stones, relics of the Old Faith, had once adorned the top of the mound, but had since toppled into piles of rubble. Brunner turned his horse at once toward the old barrow. The Bretonnians followed his lead once more, less concerned with offending the ancient dead that slept within the mound than with joining them.

  The hindmost knight’s steed shrieked and fell just as he emerged from the trees. Three arrows had sunk into the animal’s flesh and the wounds had at last overcome its strength and noble heart. The knight managed to push the dead animal off and limp away. One of the other knights wheeled about, ridin
g back to his injured comrade. Brunner could hear Sir Doneval shout for the man to come back, but the choice had already been made.

  Two greenskinned giants loped out of the trees. Spying the knights, the orcs let savage cries of rage and bloodlust rip through their fanged jaws. The mounted knight drove his steed forward, putting himself between the orcs and the wounded man. The orcs roared with approval, standing their ground before the horseman. The knight lashed downwards with his sword, catching one of the brutes in the shoulder. The blade crunched through the orc’s crude shoulder-guard and bit deeply into the flesh and bone beneath. Dark green blood spurted from the injury. The orc stumbled backwards from the force of the blow, a heavy club of metal and bone dropping from his suddenly nerveless arm.

  The other orc gave vent to a savage cry of murderous fury. The knight turned his head to see the cleaving blade of the orc’s axe swinging towards him. The butchering blow caught the knight just below the knee, the awesome power of the orc’s muscles punching the axe-blade through the metal armour, through the leg within and into the side of the knight’s charger. Horse and man screamed as one. The orc tugged at his weapon, trying to wrench it from the meat of the steed. The maimed animal whickered shrilly, then toppled onto its side, crushing the greenskin beneath its weight and snapping the neck of its rider.

  The dismounted knight saw the fate of his valiant comrade and limped back to the animal. He stared down at the orc, its head and shoulders sticking out from beneath the slain charger. The orc snarled up at him and tried to push and wriggle his way free. The knight raised his sword over his head and stabbed it into the orc’s skull with a downward thrust. Then he turned his armoured head to face the howling mob that burst from the trees. The rest of the pack had arrived. Several of the brutes raced forward to see the defiant knight standing over the dead orc, but a towering figure dressed in piecemeal armour and sporting steel-capped fangs pushed and punched his way to the fore.