Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  ‘Wha… what?’ the youth spluttered.

  ‘We’re done here,’ the bounty hunter stated. ‘If we make good time, we can be at Haustrate’s inn for the night. Not the best, but better than sleeping under the light of Morrsleib.’

  Josef did not argue. He merely indicated with a tired wave of his hand for the bounty hunter to lead the way. Soon all three horses were moving down the dirt road at something approaching a run.

  Behind them, in the shadows of the forest, an owl hooted its cry into the night.

  Josef followed Brunner into the dark coaching inn—a battered, faded wooden sign proclaiming it to be Le Canard Etrangle. A large, two-storeyed building, the inn was protected by a tall stone wall, a fortification absent in many of Bretonnia’s villages and townships. The inn served travellers on business and those on pious devotion. And there were enough itinerant peddlers and pilgrims wishing to view the sites where the grail was seen to keep Rene Haustrate a busy, and very prosperous, man.

  Even at this late hour, the coaching inn was far from deserted, its guests far from asleep. A pair of Bretonnian knights with colourful surcoats covering their suits of mail were seated at one table. Their loud, boasting voices carried across the room. A pair of green-garbed squires, their dark hair cut in the bowl-shape favoured by the common folk of Bretonnia, hastened to ensure that the two knights’ tankards never went dry. They constantly fetched fresh pitchers of ale as the lords drained the old ones dry. A wiry-looking man, with a face cast in a perpetual scowl, slowly sipped at a mug of ale while idly toying with a small tin box he had removed from the bulging pack at his side. Near to the tinker sat a group of fur-clad trappers, each of the burly, smelly men describing some adventure in the wilds with his hands, having realised that there was no hope of talking with the noisy knights so near.

  Brunner strode to the counter, ordering a tankard of ale when he discovered that Imperial schnapps was not to be had. Josef joined him, placing his own order that the pleasant-mannered barkeep was happy to meet when he saw the youth’s coin. Josef turned his back to the counter, mimicking the bounty hunter’s movements. His eyes also canvassed the room, studying every face.

  Josef did not know what he was looking for. Then it suddenly occurred to him what his companion might be hoping to see. A face, a scar, a peculiarity of dress that might identify an outlaw to the bounty hunter’s elephant-like memory.

  Josef continued to study the other denizens of this common room, then caught his breath. Seated at a table at the back of the room was a tall, slender figure garbed in a dull green cloak. Josef could make out the pale skin under the hood of the cloak. The hands were folded beneath the table, though Josef could not tell if they held a blade or not. A leather jack of ale sat on the table, but the silent figure did not seem interested in it. Josef leaned forward, trying to see if the lower half of the cloaked figure’s face was covered. A gloved hand pressed against his chest and pushed him back.

  ‘Easy,’ the bounty hunter’s voice hissed. ‘Turn around and enjoy your drink.’ The bounty hunter turned round to face the counter, and Josef followed his lead. ‘Now, I am going to take the dagger and go have a talk with our friend over there.’ Josef could feel the bounty hunter’s hand take the covered weapon from where he had thrust it through his belt. ‘Just stay here. I’ll be right back.’

  From the corner of his eye, Josef saw Brunner walk across the room, nimbly dodging the two squires racing past to secure another pitcher for their drunken lords. He headed straight toward the table where the sinister figure was seated. Josef could see that the bounty hunter’s gloved hand rested lightly upon the hilt of his sword, but he wondered just how loose that grip really was.

  The figure did not stir as Brunner sat down opposite him. Josef could see Brunner’s lips moving, but no trace of a whisper managed to fight its way back to him over the boisterous knights. He watched Brunner speak and had the impression that the cloaked figure was also conversing. Then the bounty hunter withdrew the wrapped dagger. With careful, deliberate gestures, Brunner removed the blade from its cloth covering and then its leather scabbard.

  The cloaked figure leaned forward. Two thin, pale hands closed about the weapon and pulled the blade towards him. The stranger stared down at the dagger, turning it around and around in its hands. The head rose again, and Josef could see Brunner voicing a reply to some question. Then long, inhuman fingers carefully returned the dagger to its sheath, and wrapped the cloth around it once more. The cloaked figure hesitated a moment and Josef could see the bounty hunter speak with violence. Slowly the hooded head nodded and pushed the dagger back into the bounty hunter’s care. Brunner rose from the table and made his way back to the bar.

  ‘What was that about?’ Josef asked. ‘Was he an elf? Like the other one?’ Brunner stared at his young companion.

  ‘We’ll get rooms here tonight. Continue on in the morning, for Parravon.’ The bounty hunter lifted his neglected tankard and drank deeply.

  ‘But who was that?’ Josef turned to indicate the cloaked figure, but as he looked, he saw the table was now empty.

  ‘Someone who answered a question for me,’ Brunner replied. ‘Though he was not very happy about it.’ The bounty hunter drained the last dregs of his ale and would say no more about the man in the green cloak.

  Josef rolled over, clenching the coarse wool blanket still tighter about his body, trying to defend himself against the chill morning dew. A booted heel pushed the boy onto his back. He spluttered into a dim sort of awareness, snapping his bleary head about in a series of quick side-to-side motions. The man who had awakened him strode away, to examine the harness on his warhorse.

  ‘Learn to sleep more lightly,’ Brunner called to the boy, ‘or you might not wake up at all.’

  Josef emerged from under the blanket, and wiped the dirt and grass from his clothing. ‘It is a wonder I was able to sleep at all,’ he groused. He looked about, not seeing any sign of a fire. The boy sighed and walked over to his pack, removing his belt and weapons. ‘No breakfast today either?’

  ‘If you wanted breakfast, you should have stayed at the inn,’ the bounty hunter reminded him. He had tried to impress upon the boy that he should forsake continuing his little quest for revenge and allow the bounty hunter to continue unimpeded. But Josef was not about to listen to such talk, however valid Brunner’s arguments might have been. Josef had a suspicion that the hired killer was not really eager to lose him, either—though what use the killer intended to put him to, Josef could not hazard the slightest guess.

  It had been a long, hard ride from the inn. They had been on the road two days now heading northward. Before them, like a distant shadow, the dark peaks of the Grey Mountains steadily grew larger and more imposing. To their right, the vast expanse of the forest of Loren edged to the road itself. It was a dark, forbidding mass of greenery whose branches and leaves permitted not even the slightest glimpse of what might lie within.

  Josef could not put the vast forest from his mind, imagining all sorts of nameless things watching them from the shadows. Each night they had camped under the stars. The bounty hunter had slipped into sleep almost as soon as they made camp. He attended to his horses as if he was not troubled in the slightest by the nearness of the forest and the fell creatures that might walk its shadowed paths. For Josef, however, sleep was much more elusive, and he spent hours watching the shadows, listening to the rustle of brush, the calls of night birds and the chirping of insects. Only when fatigue at last dulled his wary senses would he finally sink into a fitful sleep.

  ‘We should reach Parravon today,’ Brunner stated. ‘By early afternoon, if the viscount’s nag can keep up the pace.’

  ‘What is in Parravon?’ Josef asked, thrusting the wrapped dagger into his belt.

  ‘A… a friend,’ the bounty hunter said after a pause. He faced Josef, staring into the boy’s eyes. ‘Someone who might be able to tell us a bit more about this Black Prince of yours.’ Suddenly, Brunner spun around, his lef
t hand gripping his pistol, his right hand closed about the hilt of his drawn sword.

  ‘If I intended to kill you,’ a soft voice said, ‘you would never have seen the morning.’

  Josef watched in amazement as a tall, thin figure emerged from behind a patch of berry bushes. The figure was garbed in a long green cloak, but this time the hood was drawn back, exposing a fine-featured face with a long sharp nose, a high brow and thin eyes. Long, flowing gold hair cascaded about the figure’s shoulders. Josef could see that a slender sword with a hilt of polished horn was sheathed at the figure’s side and the stranger was carrying a carved bow of the same white wood the bounty hunter had shown him when they met.

  The elf wore a tunic and breeches of fine, smooth brown leather, a fur-lined quiver hanging from his side by a shoulder-strap.

  ‘Lithelain,’ Brunner said, keeping his weapons at the ready ‘I can hardly say that I am surprised to see you. You will forgive me if I remain suspicious.’

  The wood elf smiled, an expression that seemed subtly mocking and haughty. ‘I am afraid that you have more pressing concerns,’ the elf said, his voice retaining its soft tone. ‘Your steps have been dogged by more than myself. Five riders have been on your trail for the past day and a half.’

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Brunner asked, keeping his pistol trained on the elf’s forehead.

  ‘I should be very foolish if I did that without compensation,’ Lithelain responded.

  ‘I am not giving up the dagger, or my chance at the Black Prince,’ the bounty hunter snarled.

  Brunner’s words caused Josef to clutch the wrapped dagger more closely and draw his own sword. He ignored the fact that the bounty hunter seemed to consider the dagger his own property, and concentrated on the suggestion that the elf had come to take it.

  ‘Of what concern is he to you?’ the elf’s voice had a harsh, angry quality to it now. ‘For you he is just another bounty, but to me, he is a matter of honour, a slight upon my race.’

  ‘For me he is enough gold to choke a dwarf,’ the bounty hunter corrected. ‘If you think I am going to give that up, you’ve been out of the business for far too long.’ Brunner’s mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll bring proof to you that he is dead after I collect the reward.’

  Lithelain sighed, but the tenseness in his posture seemed to wilt away. As the elf relaxed, Brunner became more wary.

  ‘You may keep your filthy blood money, Brunner,’ the elf said. ‘But it will be my hand that slays him.’ There was no mistaking the threat in the soft, musical voice.

  ‘Are you proposing a partnership?’ Brunner asked.

  ‘Wait,’ protested Josef. ‘That bastard is mine to kill!’ The bounty hunter and the elf considered the angry merchant for a moment, then both let a brief flare of amusement flicker across their faces. Brunner holstered his weapons.

  ‘He does have a prior claim,’ the bounty hunter said. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn.’

  Lithelain looked intently at Josef, his copper-hued eyes considering the young boy. The elf’s graceful features shifted into a look of sadness. ‘I admire your determination,’ he said,‘but there is enough innocent blood on the Black Prince’s hands already.’

  Josef began to voice an angry protest, to tell this arrogant nonhuman creature that when he met the Black Prince, it would be the villain, not he, who would fall. But Lithelain had already turned his attention back to Brunner.

  ‘These riders, they should catch up to you in another few hours,’ the elf stated.

  ‘I don’t like being hunted,’ Brunner said. ‘I think we should wait for our pursuers. Maybe turn the tables on them. Perhaps ambush them on the edge of Grimfen.’ The bounty hunter paused again, considering his options. ‘Do you have any idea who they might be?’ The wood elf shook his head.

  ‘I saw them only from a great distance,’ Lithelain admitted. ‘I could tell only that they were following you.’ Brunner nodded as the elf spoke.

  ‘Well, I think this time you will get a better look at them.’

  The three men crouched amongst the rocky rubble of a wall. Fifty years ago, the local duke had tried to make this section of road between Quenelles and Parravon a toll road. The terrain was ideally suited for his purposes. To the east, the impenetrable and vast expanse of the Forest of Loren loomed—an intimidating barrier to travel, a haunted and ill-reputed land populated by all manner of fey creatures by the imaginations of the Bretonnian people.

  To the west, for several miles, the gently rolling landscape sank into a deep depression, the meadows and fields giving way to a foul, stinking morass known as Grimfen. The morass was a bowl of mud and twisted, stunted trees. Small wooded islands dotted the dismal swamp—refuges for boar and wild cats from the arrows of Bretonnian hunters. Vast stretches of grey mud crawled between the islands and the deep pools of black, scummy water. Only the lightest of birds, fishers and web-footed cranes, could navigate the mud flats with any manner of impunity; any heavier creature would find itself gripped by an implacable grasp, pulled steadily downward into the greedy mire. There were reputed to be navigable channels through the fen, but only a handful of peasant hunters and poachers knew how to manoeuvre their shallow skiffs through the swamp.

  Between the swamp and the forest was a narrow track of solid land. Under the orders of the duke, that land had been undermined. Much of it crumbled away, expanding the limits of the fen until only a slender path remained. Then the duke had constructed his tower and his gate, demanding tribute from all who travel ‘his road’.

  The duke’s toll road existed for less than a year. Some said that vengeful spirits, offended by the duke’s greed, emerged from the forest and cast down his tower. Others told of some hulking atrocity—a creature of the Dark Gods that lumbered out from the depths of Grimfen and reduced the fort to rubble in a frenzied attempt to slay the soldiers within. A less popular story held that the duke’s own soldiers set fire to the tower, hoping that its destruction would see an end to their lord’s plans for the road and would also see an end to what they viewed as a loathsome and intolerable posting. Brunner could see the possibility in that tale, for he could not imagine any man being able to endure the stench of the fen, much less live with it for months at a time.

  Lithelain placed a thin finger on Brunner’s shoulder and nodded at the road. In the distance, Brunner could see a small group of mounted figures making their way towards them. The bounty hunter sighted along the length of his crossbow, casting a sidewise look to ensure that his spare crossbow and loaded handgun were still propped against the rock at his side.

  ‘Make out any details?’ the bounty hunter asked.

  ‘They do not look out of the ordinary,’ the elf replied. ‘Armed peasant rabble, it would seem. None of them appear to have more than a sword and bow upon them.’ The elf paused, squinting his eyes. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I think there may be a knight with them, though he wears no tabard and his horse is not clothed.’ The elf concentrated upon the armoured rider. ‘He is certainly their leader. I don’t think he is a Bretonnian, however. His skin is too dark.’

  Brunner scowled, maintaining his aim. He spoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘He is wearing a suit of plates, and his head is covered by a large brimmed hat. The man’s face is marked by poxscars and he wears a cavalry mace and a small crossbow at his side.’

  ‘You see him then?’ the elf asked, a trace of astonishment in his melodious voice.

  ‘I certainly can’t make out much,’ Josef spoke. He had tried to impress Brunner to give him one of the crossbows, but had been refused. With only the broadsword given him by the Viscount de Chegney, Josef was feeling ill-equipped for the coming battle. He briefly thought that perhaps the bounty hunter was trying to protect him. But then he realised that Brunner was merely worried that he might announce their presence too soon if he was given a ranged weapon.

  There had been quite an argument when Josef heard the bounty hunter wanted to ambush the riders and k
ill them all before they had time to react. To Josef, it seemed a dastardly and despicable way to fight. The bounty hunter had snarled that the graveyards were full of men who thought battle a nobleman’s game. A smart man didn’t worry about how he killed an enemy, as long as it was his enemy and not himself who felt the kiss of steel.

  ‘The leader of those men is an Estalian. It is Osorio,’ Brunner sighed.

  ‘I thought you killed him,’ Lithelain said, watching the five riders approach.

  ‘So didI’, the bounty hunter admitted. ‘If he comes back from the dead again, he’ll have me believing in that daemon god of his.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Josef, ‘but who exactly is this Osorio? I mean, if he is trying to kill us, I’d at least like to know why.’

  ‘He’s a bounty hunter,’ Lithelain stated. ‘Same as Brunner.’

  Brunner glared at Lithelain. ‘I’m nothing like him,’ he spat. ‘Osorio is a fanatic, a butchering maniac. A self-styled witch hunter in the service of Solkan, the Fist of Retribution,’ Brunner uttered the name of the god of vengeance as though it had laced his tongue with foulness as he spoke it.

  ‘I understood that you worked with him once,’ Lithelain said, staring at the nearing riders.

  ‘Aye, two years ago,’ the bounty hunter replied, following the elf’s lead and returning his eyes to the road. ‘We were both hunting the daemonologist Dacosta, who was said to have relocated himself to Tobaro after fleeing the king’s guard in Magritta. We came upon one another in the daemon-haunted crypt Dacosta had claimed as his new lair. We made an agreement to combine our strength against him. But after overcoming Dacosta’s daemons, and after my bullet had stilled the wizard’s heart, Osorio turned on me, saying that the reward belonged neither to me nor him, but must be given to Solkan’s temple in Remas. He tried to put a bolt through my head, but I put my steel through his chest first. I left him there, in that forgotten crypt beneath the streets of Tobaro. I heard rumours that he survived, but did not credit them.’