Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  Vincenzo ignored the sight below and made his way toward the front of the viewing stand. He could see several soldiers clustered about the front seats, heedless of how their armoured figures might intrude upon the view of those sitting behind them. Vincenzo kept his hands at his side, in plain sight, as he advanced upon the warriors and the two men seated in the middle of them.

  Prince Waldemar was young, his frame powerful and muscular. He wore a robe of wolfskin, his dark red hair bare save for the simplest circlet of gold. A slim scabbarded sword was resting across his knees as he craned his sharp-featured face forward to look at the spectacle unfolding below. Beside the prince, Drexler roared his enjoyment of the fight. But his roar faded as he spied Vincenzo worming his way toward them.

  ‘Excuse me, your lordship.’ Vincenzo said to the prince. Waldemar hardly paid the merchant a second thought as Drexler rose. Down below, one of the slender-limbed green-skinned creatures darted towards the pitfighters belly with a wicked sickle of steel. The goblin’s face exploded into a mash of green paste as the gladiator smashed the studded arm-guard of his cestus into the monster’s long, narrow nose. The spatter of dark green blood flew to where the prince was seated and Waldemar howled his appreciation.

  ‘You are making a habit of appearing where you are not wanted,’ Drexler told his underling as they stepped away from the royal box, if such a formation of guards could be so called.

  ‘It is Savio,’ the Tilean said, his voice low and grave.

  ‘Tell him to wait. I’ll pay him after the fight,’ Drexler turned to return to his seat.

  A gasp of shock rose from the crowd behind the two men. Down in the pit, the goblins had worked their way around the gladiator. Three of them jabbed at him from the front and to his left while the fourth circled the man’s back. The sinister titter of the greenskins echoed gruesomely from the stone walls of the pit.

  The gladiator chanced a look over his shoulder and was rewarded by a sharp stab of pain as one of the goblins, armed with a spear, dealt him a slash across his side as payment for his inattention. The pitfighter snarled in pain and batted away the goblin’s weapon. The goblin behind him took the opportunity to leap onto the man’s back, raking his naked flesh with its black-nailed hands, and digging runnels into his skin. The goblin’s grip held as it locked its legs around the man’s waist and soon the greenskin’s fanged mouth was snapping at the man’s shoulder.

  The gladiator bellowed his rage, the sound causing the other three goblins to nervously retreat back from their adversary. The goblin on the man’s back looked up, its green mouth smeared red with blood. A look of horror worked itself into the inhuman features as the goblin saw its fellows back away. Had they remained steadfast, they could have easily penetrated the gladiator’s guard, but now, due to their craven souls, the opportunity had been lost. Moreover, the goblin on the man’s back would pay for that lost opportunity.

  The pitfighter let a savage war cry rumble from his throat as he launched himself into motion. Running at full speed, the man charged backwards, smashing into the stone wall of the pit. A sickly liquid sounding crunch rose from the arena. The gladiator stepped away from the wall, not bothering to look at the dark green smear marring the rocks, nor at the limp and broken thing that slipped from his back to twitch pathetically as life fled its broken, shattered form.

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Vincenzo muttered. ‘Savio is dead!’

  An incredulous look gripped Drexler’s features. ‘Dead?’ As Vincenzo nodded his head in affirmation of the fact, the exiled baron slumped against the low wall bordering the pit. His limbs trembled as though a chill wind licked at them. ‘Dead?’ He shook his head. Then he stared at Vincenzo. ‘The bounty hunter killed him?’

  ‘Shot him down in the street like a wild dog,’ the Tilean replied, his tone mirroring the merchant’s fear. ‘Savio challenged him. Brunner put a bullet in his heart, then cut off his head.’

  ‘Cut off his head!’ Drexler put his hand to his mouth, biting down on the horror that welled up within him.

  ‘There is quite a bounty for Savio in Luccini,’ Vincenzo explained.

  In the pit down below, the remaining goblins tittered maliciously as they jabbed at the barrel-chested gladiator with their weapons. The scar-faced man fended off the more well-directed blows, knocking away the point of one goblin’s spear, and smashing back the sword of a second with the return sweep of his blade. A wicked smile spread across the leathery face of a third goblin, displaying a massive set of needle-sharp teeth. The goblin rushed in, a notched iron axe gripped in his green hands. But as the creature came close enough to strike, the pitfighter’s booted foot rose and delivered a savage sideways kick to the small monstrosity.

  There was a loud crack and the goblin’s leg snapped at the knee. The greenskin howled in agony, letting his axe fall from his hand. Eyes upon the still armed goblins, the pitfighter circled around the pit until he stood above the wailing creature. He brought his booted foot down once again, smashing the goblin’s neck beneath his heel. There was a final snap of bone and a froth of dark green liquid bubbled from the goblin’s over-sized mouth. The laughter of the last goblins turned nervous as the cheering of the spectators rose to a thunderous clamour.

  ‘Perhaps it was Savio he was after?’ offered Drexler, weakly. Vincenzo shook his head.

  ‘Were that so, then why is he still here?’ the Tilean asked. ‘Savio was a bonus to him. But whoever Brunner is after, he has yet to collect them.’ A crafty look entered the Tilean’s eyes. ‘I have an idea,’ he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I know of a man in Adlerhof. We could hire him. He could be here in three days.’

  Drexler ignored his companion, looking down into the arena below. The gladiator was charging at his remaining greenskin foes. The goblin with the spear shrieked, threw his weapon at the massive pitfighter and raced to the nearest wall, black-nailed hands scrabbling desperately for purchase on the smooth stones.

  The other goblin swung his sword, trying to hamstring his human opponent. The gladiator leapt over the goblin’s blade. The man’s shortsword gleamed in the light as he brought it down to the goblin’s head. The creature did not even have time to scream as the force of the man’s blow split his skull in two, green blood and greasy brain matter spilling from the goblin’s head.

  The last goblin cast a terrified look at his comrade’s demise and scratched at the wall with an even greater frenzy. The gladiator sneered at the little creature. He bent down and picked up the goblin’s discarded spear. With a snort of contempt, the man hurled the spear across the pit, smashing its point into the goblin’s back, pinning the greenskin to the wall.

  Sparing the dead no further thought, the pitfighter raised his arms over his head and revelled in the joyous roar of the crowd.

  ‘Do as you like, Vincenzo,’ Drexler said, his eyes glittering with cunning as he cheered the triumphant pitfighter. ‘But an idea has just occurred to me as well.’

  Brunner emerged from the inn, his helm catching the sunlight as its golden rays briefly penetrated the haze from hearths and cookfires that hung over Greymere like a shroud. The bounty hunter considered the peasants and merchantmen rushing about the muddy street. It was a habit of his to study every face, each person he encountered for some trait that he might recognise. It was the telltale mark that would put a name to the face and transform the person from just another member of the mob to a piece of merchandise to be acquired and sold.

  After a moment, the bounty hunter moved on, stalking down the muddy lane toward the stables where his animals had been taken. He did not trust any hand but his own with his horses—the magnificent Bretonnian bay, Fiend, and the dour, overworked packhorse from Tilea, he called Paychest. It was the bounty hunter’s routine to inspect his animals daily, and to ensure that those he entrusted with them had not abused that trust, or his property. The bounty hunter had very high expectations for his animals and woe betide the stablemaster whose care was negligent.


  As the bounty hunter turned from the inn, he did not see the barrel-chested, scar-faced shape detach itself from an alley and follow him. The scar-faced man had traded the loincloth of the pit for a set of leather breeches and a sleeveless black tunic that displayed his massive arms. The shortsword that had done such deadly work the night before swung from his belt, and the look in his close-set eyes was no less murderous than that with which he had favoured his inhuman adversaries.

  The bounty hunter entered the darkened stable, the odour of animals and dung wafting from the cave-like gloom. He marched across the straw-strewn floor, paying scant notice to the grizzled stablemaster until he was only a few feet away. Brunner addressed a few cold words to the man, inquiring where his animals could be found. The dirty man pointed a brown-stained hand deeper into the building and shambled off to return to whatever duties Brunner’s arrival had interrupted.

  Brunner found his steed and packhorse tethered to a wooden post set into the wall, forming a stall that separated the animals from their fellows. The massive Bretonnian bay snorted happily as the bounty hunter’s gloved hand stroked his flank.

  Brunner examined the animal’s body, looking for the telltale signs of lash and whip. Then he examined each of the horse’s hooves, checking that the shoes had been replaced, and the horn tended to. Satisfied with his examination, he moved toward the grey packhorse. As he rose, however, the bounty hunter noticed the figure of the stablemaster slipping out of the front door. A premonition washed over Brunner and he turned just as a massive figure closed upon him.

  Brunner caught the wrist of the hand that gripped the shortsword just as the scar-faced man was thrusting the blade toward his belly. The bulging muscles on the pitfighter’s massive arm were like steel cords, and before the man’s strength, the bounty hunter found his own restraining grip thwarted, the fat-bladed sword inching closer towards his vitals.

  The bounty hunter twisted his body, catching the pitfighter off guard. The gladiator’s massive body now pressed against Brunner’s back, the shortsword thrust away from the bounty hunter’s belly.

  The gladiator snarled, catching Brunner’s neck in the crook of his free arm. Like the legendary pythons of Lustria, his powerful arm began to constrict about the bounty hunter’s throat, choking the breath from him. Brunner released a hand from the pitfighter’s wrist to rake the man’s eyes, but swiftly returned his hand to the wrist as the sword began to turn back towards his body. The gladiator grunted and increased the pressure about the bounty hunter’s neck.

  The contest continued for a long while, the men’s feet jostling in the straw and dung for greater advantage, or some purchase that might tip the balance. Finally, the bounty hunter went limp, his grasp on the sword slackened. The gladiator sneered and increased the pressure on his throat. But the bounty hunters head suddenly snapped backwards, exploding the pitfighter’s bulbous nose with the steel crown of the helmet. The killer released his prey, staggering back a pace. Brunner gasped for breath, but even as he sucked air into his starving lungs, he managed to smash his steel-toed boot into the stunned gladiator’s knee. The scarred man crumpled and as he rose, a second kick caught him under the chin. Teeth and blood scattered across the stable, adding to the agitation of the animals.

  Brunner stood over the man, and watched the rise and fall of his massive chest. As his icy eyes narrowed, the bounty hunter smashed the toe of his other boot into the side of the gladiator’s head. There was a sickening sound like an egg cracking and the pitfighter’s body trembled. Again the boot kicked out, this time caving in the side of his foe’s skull. The rise and fall of the man’s chest eventually grew still.

  The bounty hunter crouched, sucking in more precious air, one gloved hand massaging his ravaged throat. He was studying his prey, taking in the build, the scars and what remained of the face. A smile, like that of a wolf as it spies a lone sheep, spread across the bounty hunter’s face. There was something familiar about this one. The gloved hand left his throat and grasped the hilt of the long knife hanging from his belt.

  The bounty hunter made his way back toward the inn, every eye on the street watching as he walked past with the dripping head of the gladiator swinging from his left hand, where he gripped it by the hair. As he neared the inn, the wiry shape of a young boy detached itself from the shade of a haycart and scrambled toward him, straining to make his small legs keep pace with Brunner’s lengthy stride.

  ‘Will you be needing more salt, master?’ the boy asked, a tone of eagerness in his voice. Even at his tender age, he had witnessed death often enough, and heads of criminals adorning pikes set before the town’s main gate were commonplace. The gory object in Brunner’s hand disturbed him less than the gaggle of flies buzzing about a nearby pile of dung.

  Brunner paused, staring down at the boy. The young face stared back at the steel visage. ‘Ever seen him before?’ the bounty hunter asked, holding the pitfighter’s mashed face forward for the boy to get a better look.

  ‘No,’ he replied after a moment. ‘I am sure that he was a stranger, from outside Greymere.’ Brunner continued to stare at the boy, then reached into a cloth pouch on his belt and tossed the child a copper coin.

  ‘Let me know if you see any more strangers,’ the bounty hunter’s cold voice said. Without a further look at the boy, he proceeded on his way to the inn. As he passed, the child bit the flat wedge of metal, to see if it would bend. When it did not, a gleeful expression washed across his face and he raced off, to be lost in the dingy streets of Greymere.

  The bounty hunter was deep in thought as he pushed open the log door of the inn. Since he had arrived here, two men had tried to kill him. The duellist, Savio, had been known here. But the brutish man who had ambushed him in the stable apparently was not, assuming the boy and the stablemaster were to be trusted. Brunner did not doubt that there would be a third attempt.

  Drexler bolted down the glass of Estalian brandy as if it were cheap marshbrew from the inn. He cast a withering look at the attending servant and the man hastened to refill his glass. The door of the parlour opened and the exiled Imperial nobleman turned his head, his hand slipping away from the glass to fumble for the crossbow leaning beside his chair. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Vincenzo enter, and the ashen pallor faded slightly from his face.

  ‘I have not left this room in two days,’ the merchant growled, fear making the sullen tone more whiny than intimidating. ‘He killed the pitfighter.’ To punctuate his last statement, Drexler drained the glass of brandy.

  Vincenzo nodded his head, removing his cloth hat with a hand grey with traildust. ‘I could have told you that it would turn out like that. You hired a killer to do an assassin’s job.’

  ‘I encouraged the prince to arrest the man.’ Drexler said, looking down at the floor. ‘He would have done so, had the bounty hunter not already appeared before him. It seems this pitfighter was once a Sartosan corsair, with a price on his head in every port in Tilea.’ Drexler sighed, waving his hands in an expressive gesture. ‘If it had been the bounty killer’s word alone, perhaps I might have prevailed upon Waldemar to arrest him, but the pitfighter’s manager came forward to affirm the hunter’s claim! Damn fool was hoping to share in the reward, and gain some last bit of profit on his fighter!’ Drexler shook his head. Ordinarily, he would have admired such limitless avarice, and the ability to ferret out the last copper from an investment, but this time boundless greed had worked against him.

  Suddenly Drexler raised his head, and turned to face his Tilean friend. ‘What did you say a moment ago?’ he inquired, a subtle tone to his query.

  ‘I made contact with Louis.’ Vincenzo replied. ‘He will arrive in two days’ time.’ Drexler shook his head, waving away his words.

  ‘No, you said something about this being an assassin’s job,’ he said, a sinister gleam in his eye.

  He thought for a moment, motioning for Vincenzo to be silent. A smile cracked his face and he nodded. ‘Perhaps we do not need to w
ait two days.’

  ‘What are you planning?’ Vincenzo asked, not following the merchant’s thoughts.

  ‘Drugo,’ the exile said, his smile broadening as he saw the frightened look in Vincenzo’s eyes.

  ‘Drugo?’ he scoffed. ‘Prince Waldemar will never stand for that. You may as well send for Vogun and have him do the job—and smash down half the town in the process.’ The Tilean shook his head. ‘Besides, Drugo is locked away in the prince’s dungeon, to entertain us all on Pflugzeit when he is drawn and quartered.’

  The calculating look remained on Drexler’s face as he stood from his chair. ‘I am very old friends with Waldemar. I think he will find that it is easier to catch an assassin like Drugo than it is to keep him.’ He laughed, snatching the bottle of brandy from his attendant and pouring a measure into his glass. ‘At least he will after I finish speaking with him about it.’

  ‘This bounty hunter considers killing a business,’ Drexler snickered. ‘Let us see how he fares against someone who considers it a religious experience.’

  A figure of blackness watched from the shadows beside a ramshackle wainwright’s as the last light on the upper floor of Greymere’s inn went dark. The face grinned in the darkness as widely and hideously as any goblin from the Badlands. No laughter accompanied the manic leer as the shape detached itself from the wall against which it had been pressed. A shadow crossed the muddy street. It had the faintest suggestion of a man’s figure, cloaked and hooded in a garment cut from midnight itself. It crossed the street, fading into the looming darkness before the inn. No sound accompanied it, not the sound of breath, the squelching of mud under booted sole, or even the rustle of fabric. The heavy door of the inn, firmly secured from within, was covered by darkness for one fleeting moment. Then it opened by the smallest margin. The shadow slipped through the opening and the heavy door shut behind it.