Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  Niedreg stepped back, leaving the still-dripping dagger in the old man’s back. He watched as green drops slithered from the blade’s edge and sizzled on the fabric of the wizard’s robe.

  Niedreg bent forward to retrieve the blade, but as his eyes fell upon the blood flowing from the wizard’s mouth where he had bitten through his own tongue, he flinched away from the dagger. The blood that was pooling on the table was not simply crimson: there was a thick streak of dark foul corruption mingled with it. Once again, the young man recalled his patron’s words of caution: do not handle the blade for longer than you need to. But he would need to touch it again to accomplish the rest of his task, for his benefactor had told him that the blade must not be found in the wizard’s body. Even a charred, blackened skeleton would look the part of a murder victim with a dagger in its back.

  Niedreg squatted on the floor, pulling a heavy book from the top of a pile. He opened the leather-bound volume, ripped several pages from the binding, and clasped them in his hand to form a crude mitten. He stood again and reached for the dagger sticking from Lothair’s back. With as quick a motion as he could manage, he pulled the dagger from the wound and tossed it onto the table. The slimy drops of venom still sweated from the gory blade. Niedreg hastily tossed the pages in his hand over the weapon. He did not watch as they darkened and curled when they came to rest upon the dagger. He smiled nervously, fearing and envying the lethal enchantment upon the blade. He reached toward the flickering lamp, to engulf the evidence of his crime in fire, when a thought occurred to him. He was not without his own magic.

  Picking up the violated book once more, Niedreg began to mutter, and rub a dark, salt-like powder between the fingers of his left hand. As he continued his low incantation, he ripped pages from the book with his now blackened fingers. He tossed the pages about the room, careful to place most of them around the dead wizard and, just as importantly, the subject of his final study. When each page came to rest, the paper burst into flame. Very quickly, a dozen small fires were blazing about the room. Very shortly the entire study would become a raging inferno, obliterating all trace of Niedreg’s crime.

  The apprentice paused, admiring the flames his magic had brought into being. No lesson of Lothair’s had ever been so grand.

  No, the spell the apprentice had invoked had been taught to him by his new benefactor—a small sampling of the secrets and powers Niedreg’s new patron would reveal to him as payment for this night’s work.

  Shouts of alarm from the street outside brought Niedreg out of his reverie. The room was now engulfed in flame, the ancient books and carefully collected relics shrivelling and cracking as the flames licked about them. At the table, Lothair’s body was burning like a torch, the artefacts on the table before him already lost in the dancing fire. Niedreg tipped his fingers to his brow and saluted the old wizard’s corpse as he hurried from the room.

  From the shadows, a pair of beady red eyes watched the flames dance from an upper floor window across the cobbled street. A small hiss of excitement escaped the watcher’s mouth as he saw the fire ravage the home of the wizard Lothair. His agent had performed just as he had anticipated, but he had ever been a good judge of men, able to determine their capabilities and find their weaknesses. Now all that remained was to sever the link between himself and the fool turned assassin and he would be in the clear, with no connection between himself and his mistake.

  The household of Duke Verletz had been taken ill; indeed most of the household had perished, including the duke himself. His death would firmly put an end to the lunatic idea to renovate the sewers of Altdorf. The duke had a mad notion to install piping and tubing in the hundreds of thousands of buildings in Altdorf, to let the waste of each house be carried directly into the sewers without first being dumped into the street and carried away by the dung gatherer or rainfall. It was the ambitious scheme of a maniac—a maniac with the Emperor’s ear. And there were those who did not like such a state of affairs. So, the duke’s household had become ill, and the wizard Lothair had been summoned to try and identify the nature of the seemingly sorcerous ailment, and find a way to neutralise it. This too was a state of affairs that could not be tolerated, because an entirely different neck was on the line should the wizard succeed.

  The observer fought down the nervous impulse to chew on the object clutched in his hands. There was no need to fear: his error was now going up in smoke and flame. All that remained was to meet with Niedreg one last time and give him the reward that was his due.

  The watcher’s face twisted into a snarl. The fire was burning quite well now, but still the fool had failed to emerge from the building. Suspense was not something he enjoyed so there would be an extra measure of pain when he caught up with Niedreg for creating such a strain. There were enough causes to instil fear in him, not the least of which were those to whom he himself was answerable. He did not need some one-use man-tool upsetting him so.

  The watcher hissed a sharp curse and slid lower in the basement window from which he observed the scene. Niedreg had emerged from the burning house, but he had dawdled too long inside. He was carrying a large chest in his arms and a bulging pack was dangling from one arm. Instead of looking like an innocent witness to the unfortunate fire, it now looked obvious to everyone that Niedreg was a thief and a murderer. The watcher cursed again as a trio of figures in gleaming armour plate with deep rich ostrich plumes flowing from the crowns of their helmets converged upon the idiot. Niedreg tried to run, but did not release his hold on the burdensome chest and pack. The knights easily caught up to him, smashing him to the cobblestones with the butts of their halberds.

  Skrim Gnaw-Tail succumbed to his nervous habit and clenched the much-abused end of his long, naked tail into his fanged mouth, nibbling at the scarred flesh with his chisel-like teeth. He slunk away from the window, drawing the shabby cloak of black wool still tighter about his mottled grey and brown fur. He turned his longmuzzled rodent face toward the two larger figures beside him in the basement.

  Skrim let his tail drop again, tucking the much abused appendage beneath his cloak with two furry, long fingered hands. He barked a sharp command and the two slaves scuttled forward. They were larger than Skrim—the size of a decently grown human, though leaner and much less broad of chest. The two slaves were naked save for filthy loincloths of tanned rat-hide, and their brown-furred bodies bore the marks of lash and fang. Most horrible of all, their mouths had been sewn shut with a crude cross-stitch of rat-gut.

  Skrim gestured imperiously with one of his paws. The skaven scurried forward and pulled up a loose stone in the floor of the basement, exposing the narrow tunnel that wormed its way from the cellar to the vast sewers beneath the ancient Imperial capital. The two slaves stood aside, for their master to go in first. Skrim set a foot on the edge of the pit, then snarled and gestured for one of the slaves to go first. It was doubtful if anything would be waiting for them below, but the skaven would feel better with at least some warning if there were. After the mute ratman disappeared down the hole, Skrim climbed down, leaving the last slave to replace the heavy stone behind him.

  The skaven scampered down the tunnel behind his slave, his keen eyes finding a path even in the absolute darkness. As he hurried along, Skrim’s thoughts turned to what he would do now. His luck had betrayed him at every turn in this enterprise. An hour more and that idiot would have fallen into the skaven’s paws, removing the last link between him and the duke’s death, and the true facts concerning that demise. Nor could Niedreg be arrested by any guardsman. But a patrol of the Reiksguard, the Emperor’s own! Which meant that instead of gracing some common keep’s dungeon, Niedreg was now enjoying the hospitality of Karl-Franz’s own prisons, beneath the Imperial Palace itself, a place Skrim Gnaw-Tail would not risk trying to enter.

  Indeed, even the most skilful of the Clan Eshin assassins would be loath to chance the Emperor’s dungeons, for measures had been taken to protect the place from Skrim’s kind—sorcerous alarms th
at would react to the presence of any creature of Chaos. Any assassin Skrim sent to finish the job might ask too many questions, and worse, might ask them of the wrong skaven.

  No, Skrim decided, as he emerged into the foul-smelling labyrinth of the sewers, a human was responsible for getting him into this mess and it would take another human to get him out of it.

  The Dancing Fox was a sinister-looking building, a three-storey structure that dominated one corner of a broad market square. The narrow windows faced outward like the arrow slits of a castle wall, framed by wooden shutters that had been painted in the same black that coated the exposed support timbers. There was always a crowd in the establishment: merchants fresh from their custom in the square; patrons who managed to have coin within their purses after visiting the hawkers and tradesmen who filled the square each market day and those of a more larcenous bent: thieves and pickpockets who preyed upon seller and customer alike. But the thieves had their own predators.

  Brunner sat at a table, peering from the shadows. He was studying each face as it passed into the vast, triple-tiered common hall of the tavern. A black steel helmet concealed his face and he wore a belt of throwing knives across his chest. A long-barrelled pistol of exceptional craftsmanship rested upon the table before him. From his clay stein some white froth slowly slithered its way to the stained wooden surface of the table.

  He watched a pair of men enter the tavern, noting the notched, maimed ear the fatter one had. His memory dredged up a name to go with the ear, and a price to go with the name. He let a thin smile split his face and reached for the beer stein, his gloved finger wiping away the foam to grip the handle of the clay mug. Now he would wait for the fat man to conclude whatever business he had in the tavern. Providing no better mark presented himself, Brunner would follow the fat man as he left. There was not a large contract on the smuggler, but it was enough to justify the three-day journey to the Reikland town where the itinerant magistrate Judge Vaulkberg was currently located.

  Brunner watched the fat smuggler boisterously greet a pair of well-dressed men who had the look of the port city of Marienburg about them. Just then a dark shape slipped into the chair opposite the bounty hunters seat. Brunner gave a start, his hand gripping the pistol on the table. Rarely was the bounty hunter surprised, especially in a tavern and on the hunt as he now was. Yet the wiry figure in the shabby cloak had been so furtive in his advance that even Brunner’s cautious, roving eye had failed to notice him. Brunner immediately forgot about the fat smuggler, focusing his angry gaze on the seated interloper, as well as the barrel of his pistol.

  The figure raised its hands in a placating gesture. Brunner noted the slender, thin hands, covered by rough gloves of coarse and dirty wool. The cloak was of more crude material, though it had been dyed black at some point. The scent of a cheap, pungent perfume wafted from the figure. As the unwanted guest raised his head, Brunner could see that beneath the hood a mask of black cloth completely concealed his features.

  ‘No harm,’ the man said, his voice thin and shrill. Brunner stared at him dubiously, keeping the pistol trained upon him. ‘I speak-say,’ the man paused, uncertain how to elaborate. ‘Need hunter,’ he said at last. ‘Man-hunter.’

  Brunner tried to follow the butchered Reikspiel. The speaker was certainly not a native of the Empire, though even Brunner’s wide-faring ears were unable to identify his accent. It was not of Kislev, nor even of the Tilean cities. Nor did the shrill tones suggest the melodious speech of elves or the thin whispers of goblins. But the next words, however poorly spoken, rang like music to the bounty hunter and quieted the questions aroused within his mind.

  ‘Much gold I pay-spend,’ the cloaked figure said. The gloved hand scratched within the folds of the cloak and placed a pouch upon the table that chinked loudly with the metallic ping of coins rubbing against one another. Brunner, with one hand still on his pistol, for his doubts had not been banished, reached for the bag. He slid the pouch across the table, undoing the thin cord that bound the pouch. He let his eyes fall to the open pouch, and then looked once more at the masked visage of his companion. He removed one of the gold coins and tapped it against the edge of the table, as though the sheen might scratch away to reveal lead underneath. But the sheen held true, the coin was indeed gold, as were its many comrades in the pouch.

  ‘You have my interest,’ Brunner stated flatly.

  ‘Give twice, more when kill-slay,’ the voice scratched as the figure leaned back. Seeing Brunner’s hand relax on the grip of his pistol, the cloaked head darted about, to see what eyes might be watching their transaction.

  ‘Who’s the mark?’ the bounty hunter asked. The cloaked figure cocked his hooded head, as though confused. ‘Who do you want me to kill?’ the bounty hunter explained.

  ‘Wyrd-maker, warlock,’ the man hissed.

  ‘A wizard?’ Brunner asked. The figure grew silent for a moment, as though considering the bounty hunter’s question. Then the head bobbed in a crude approximation of a nod.

  ‘Wiz-ird, yes,’ he agreed. A gloved hand slipped into the folds of the cloak, removing a rolled piece of stained leather. ‘Prisoner,’ the voice added as Brunner unrolled the leather scroll, to reveal a scrawl of lines and scratches. It was a map—a crude map—but a map all the same. ‘Locked-kept in Emperor-man burrows,’ the speaker paused, again seeming to collect his thoughts, and to translate them into the structure of the Imperial tongue. ‘Much-like wyrd-maker not leave burrows,’ the speaker said. ‘Not have wyrd-maker say-speak to Emperor-man.’

  ‘The map,’ Brunner said tapping the leather scroll with a gloved finger. ‘A section of the sewers?’ The head tipped in a slight, faltering nod. ‘Beneath the dungeons? How do I get in?’

  A hand pointed at a small scratch mark near one of the lines. ‘Tunnel in wall,’ the shrill voice explained. ‘Open into man-hutch.’

  ‘The wizard’s?’ Brunner asked. The cloaked shape shrugged, a gesture the figure seemed comfortable doing. Brunner sighed. ‘Do you know how large the dungeons of Karl-Franz are?’

  ‘Work-earn gold,’ the cloaked man snapped, his temper making his voice even more shrill and unpleasant. ‘Not give-all, must look-seek!’ The hooded head again scanned the room to see if anyone was listening. Brunner gave a short laugh.

  ‘All right, I get the idea,’ he reached forward and closed his hand about the sack of gold. ‘I’ll figure out where your friend is.’ Brunner set the pouch into a leather box fixed to his belt. ‘And send him your regards.’ The cloaked head cocked, like a bird puzzling over a worm. The bounty hunter sighed. ‘I’ll slit his throat. Then he won’t say anything you don’t want someone to hear.’

  The tittering laugh that hissed from behind the mask made Brunner’s hand return to his pistol, such was its unnerving, unnatural sound. The speaker flinched as the bounty hunter stared hard into his masked face. The bounty hunter’s blue eyes gazed into the red crescents that peered from behind the mask.

  ‘Where do I meet you when the job is done?’

  ‘Alley-run behind butcher-lodge, Fleischer-weg,’ the shrill voice replied. Brunner nodded his head.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When wyrd-maker dead,’ the shrill voice hissed, ‘hunter-man come when dark, when butcher-lodge alone. Hunter-man find gold then. Need wyrd-maker slay-kill soon, or not give-spend gold. Day and night, not more.’

  ‘All right, but bring twice as much money when you meet me. The death of a wizard is not an easy thing,’ the bounty hunter stated, studying the sinister man. In truth, what he had been paid already was enough for him to accept the job. And that was what made him uneasy. The strange figure’s reaction to his raising of the fee was not what the bounty hunter expected.

  ‘Gold not problem,’ the voice uttered with the same unsettling titter of laughter. ‘Small wyrd-maker, easy strike-kill, but gold not problem.’ Still laughing, the lean figure rose from the table.

  ‘This wizard have a name?’ Brunner asked, a demanding tone in his voi
ce. The cloaked patron froze, cocking his head to one side, as though it was a curious thing to require the name of the man upon whom he had put a death mark.

  ‘Niedreg,’ the voice pronounced, before slipping away into the shadowy crowd.

  Brunner watched the figure disappear, and considered the gold in his pocket and the mysterious shabby man. He reached forward, tipping the stein to his mouth, to wash away the after-scent of the departed man’s cheap perfume.

  Skrim Gnaw-Tail looked from side to side as he scuttled toward the mouth of the sewer. When he was satisfied that no one was looking his way, he dropped to all fours and scampered across the filthy alleyway like the vermin he resembled. He slipped through the narrow opening, dropping ten feet to the dark tunnel of muck-lined stone walls. The skaven’s nostrils drank in the stench of the sewer, but even that mighty reek could not entirely drown out the odour of the cheap perfume he had been forced to douse his fur with.

  Skrim removed one of his gloves and raised a grey, hairy paw to his nose. His face wrinkled with disgust and he cast a murderous look at the two mute slaves who had been waiting for his return. He slashed his claws against the face of one of them, enjoying the way the brute flinched. It was not their fault that Skrim had been forced to don his unpleasant disguise and walk among the man-things again, but nothing lessened the irritation seething in Skrim’s scheming mind. Such petty retribution—even against a hapless lackey—eased the skaven’s mood somewhat.

  The skaven walked over to the edge of the slime-coated walkway, peering at the foul brown water. The sharp tang of the filth caused Skrim’s nose to twitch, but he was more accustomed to this than the overpowering reek of the perfume. To a creature who saw the world through his nose as much as his eyes, it was like being nearly blinded. With another sullen look at his slaves, the skaven dropped into the filthy water, splashing about in the slime for a moment before submerging entirely. When he emerged, clumps of waste and even more unsavoury substances clung to his wet dripping pelt, and a foul odour wafted from his fur, but at least the stinging scent of the perfume had been washed away.