by C. L. Werner
‘What can you tell me about this?’ Brunner asked.
‘It is elvish,’ the writer responded. ‘I can’t make out the writing, however. I doubt there are many men who could.’
‘I already know it is of elf make,’ Brunner said. ‘If it is any consolation, even an elf was unable to decipher that script. He did say that it had certain similarities to family honours inscribed in the heirlooms of his own people, however.’ The bounty hunter gestured at the weapon with a gloved finger. ‘He also said that it is an especially ugly thing, tooled to rip and tear, to leave ugly wounds that will bleed greatly and not close if the blade is stabbed deep enough.’
‘I’ve seen items like this before,’ Stoecker said, still turning the dagger about in his hands. ‘Though never an example so fine.’ He looked up, focusing his gaze on the bounty hunter. ‘In collections and museums in Marienburg and Brionne, you may see such things, scavenged from the field of battle and carefully preserved. Swords, axes, spears, all with the same thorn-like look, all with the hooked spurs at the mid-point of the edge. They are the arms of the dark elves, the corsairs who sail from across the sea to wage their campaigns of slaughter and pillage.’
‘This did not come from a battlefield,’ Brunner stated, retrieving the dagger and handing it back to Josef. ‘This boy took it, from the Black Prince himself.’
‘The Black Prince?’ Stoecker exclaimed, a look of profound interest dispelling the last lingering traces of trepidation. ‘Are you certain?’
A look of suspicion entered the writer’s eyes. ‘Is that why you came? You already knew about the dagger’s likely origin from your elf friend. You came here to ask me what I know about the Black Prince.’
‘You’ve been here long enough to have collected every hag’s tale and minstrel’s fable,’ the bounty hunter answered. ‘Unless you’ve changed since Miragliano, I imagine your chambers must be cluttered with myth and nonsense.’
‘I have changed since Miragliano,’ Stoecker said, reaching for his cup once more. ‘I learned things it was better not to know, if you recall.’ The writer sighed, collecting the scattered pages of the duc’s manuscript and setting them into a neat stack. ‘Still, you are right, I have collected many stories about the Black Prince.’
‘Then let us see if you are as good at sifting truth from legend as you are at weaving lies from true life,’ Brunner said. The writer rose from the table, looking from the bounty hunter to Josef and back to Brunner.
‘There will be a price,’ the writer said.
‘I will meet it,’ the bounty hunter replied. ‘Provided,’ he raised a gloved hand, and stabbed a finger at the exiled Imperial novelist, ‘your information is of value.’
For several hours, the three men sat in the small garret Ehrhard Stoecker had leased from his Bretonnian landlord. Stacks of parchment, paper and vellum were cast all about the tiny room as the writer sifted through the haphazard arrangement of legends and travellers’ tales he had been recording.
It was long, tedious work, but the elusive image of the Black Prince began to form around them. At times, Stoecker would ask Josef about the being that killed his father, then he would seize upon some small detail and tear through the documents for some scrap of story that might relate to Josef’s attacker, even if the Black Prince had not been associated with the account.
In the end, however, there was little of value in Stoecker’s exhaustive collection of tales. The Black Prince was alternately reputed to be the bastard son of the former Bretonnian king, Charles de la Tete d’Or III, or some sinister agent of the Empire, who was trying to destabilise the frontier between the two great nations. Some tales said the Black Prince was a creature of the great enchanter, continuing his dread masters work even after Drachenfels’s demise. Still others claimed that the villain was in the service of another of Bretonnia’s adversaries, the wicked Lichemaster, Heinrich Kemmler, who was using his acts of banditry, securing magical artefacts of unholy power so that the necromancer might continue his war against the king.
No two accounts were the same, and those that told of the possible hiding place of the Black Prince were even more contradictory. According to the legends, the Black Prince’s lair was as near as the haunted and forsaken Blood Keep, or as remote and far off as the blighted Cripple Peak. The few truths amounted to little more than a rough idea of when and where the vile creature had first set foot upon Bretonnian soil. Nearly five hundred years ago, a dark elf fleet had ransacked the countryside in the vicinity of Bordeleaux, and it had been at about this time that the oldest stories of the Black Prince had originated. This information was far too little to appease the bounty hunter.
‘It seems I have wasted my time coming here,’ Brunner snarled. ‘I would do better trying to track down one of his men and beating what I want out of him.’
‘That might be difficult to accomplish,’ Stoecker said, setting the last of his string-bound bundles of parchment on the side of his bed. ‘It might take you years to find him that way, for I doubt if any but the most trusted of his minions is shown his stronghold.’ The writer smiled. ‘And don’t forget, while you are looking for him, he might come looking for you.’
‘If you have another plan,’ Brunner replied, ‘speak. I have no time to spare in fencing words with you.’
Stoecker paced the room, then looked over at Josef. ‘There was something interesting in your account. The man who the Black Prince said betrayed him; his description was interesting. I believe he may have been a man named Bors, once a fairly notorious highwayman in these parts.’
‘How does that help us?’ the bounty hunter asked.
‘You will agree to my price?’ Stoecker answered. The bounty hunter nodded his head. Stoecker breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. ‘This bandit, Bors, had a partner, a man named Ferricks. A week ago, this Ferricks appeared in Parravon and was arrested by the watch. A rather interesting coincidence, don’t you think?’
Brunner considered the writers words. ‘Indeed, a very interesting coincidence. You are thinking that if his friend was behind this plot to kill the Black Prince that Ferricks might also have had a hand in it?’
‘Indeed, and that would explain why he fled and was captured here!’ Josef exclaimed.
‘More to the point, gentlemen,’ Stoecker spoke, in a lecturing tone, ‘if Bors knew the location of the Black Prince’s stronghold, then most likely Ferricks does as well.’
‘Then I think this Ferricks is someone I need to speak with,’ Brunner stated.
‘That may be somewhat hard; he is to be hung at the end of the month. They are keeping him in the duc’s dungeons until his execution date arrives.’ A crafty look entered the writer’s eyes. ‘But I have met the keeper of the duc’s gaol, a knight named Sir Lutriel Tourneur. I have even recorded some of the lies he tells about how he became a knight of the realm. He is a—shall we say—ambitious man. Include him in our little compact, and I think he might very easily arrange a pardon for Ferricks.’
‘And split the reward still further,’ Brunner’s voice rumbled from his throat.
‘I care nothing about rewards, only that this monster meets a just end,’ declared Josef. The bounty hunter did not spare the youth a glance.
‘There might be enough treasure in his stronghold to offset whatever demands your partners make on the king’s bounty,’ Stoecker offered. Brunner nodded his head.
‘Very well,’ the bounty hunter said, ‘we’ll see your gaoler.’
The dungeons of the Duc of Parravon were located beneath one of the watchtowers nestled between the half-timbered houses of the townsfolk. The guard on watch at the tower at once recognised Stoecker, though he cast a suspicious eye at his two companions. The guard told the men to wait while he spoke through the grille in the front of the heavy oak door, to someone inside in the thin, nasally tones of the Bretonnian language.
After a few minutes, the door opened. Five soldiers wearing rounded steel helmets and coats of chainmail beneath their colourful
heraldic surcoats emerged from the tower; each man bore a long, hatchet-headed halberd. From the midst of these soldiers, a sixth man strode forward. Tall, imposing in his suit of plates, the man wore the colourful surcoat of Parravon, but with a golden thread edging the chevrons and fleur-de-lys depicted upon fields of blue and yellow.
Mixed with the symbols of the city, the knight’s mantle also bore three other symbols—marks of his own battles and achievements: a rampant wyvern, a black star, and a silver raven. The man’s face was hard, framed by a mail coif that covered his head and dripped about his neck. His harsh eyes regarded the three men who sought entry to the tower. The knight’s upturned chin was thrust forward as he studied the men who accompanied Stoecker.
‘Ah, Stoecker, my friend,’ the knight said at last, turning his attention fully upon the writer. His voice was deep, suave and had a self-assured and condescending tone. ‘What brings your esteemed self to my humble post?’
‘Sir Lutriel,’ Stoecker answered, bowing his head. ‘I was telling my companions about your noble self and your important position in the duc’s trust. They simply had to meet such a fascinating figure.’
‘Indeed,’ Sir Lutriel said, a crafty gleam winking from his eyes. But his tone suggested that he had not believed a word of the writer’s flattery for a moment. ‘Perhaps we might retire to my quarters where we can sample some of the duc’s wine. It is not well to be on the streets of Parravon after dusk,’ he added, his tone dropping into a warning whisper.
Very soon, Brunner found himself standing in a lavishly appointed chamber that served the knight for entertaining guests. His critical eye appraised the value of the tapestries and soft rugs he was standing on. A few statues, all nudes, nested on tables between glass carafes of dark, sombre looking brandy and bejewelled boxes. Brunner did not doubt that the keeper of the duc’s prisons was corrupt, but he was surprised at how openly he flaunted his willingness to accept a bribe. The bounty hunter guessed that there could be but one reason for the knight’s lack of subtlety: that any in the hierarchy of Parravon in a position to reprimand him must be thrice the thief that he was.
The knight settled himself in a tall-backed chair behind an extravagantly carved table. He rested his hands on top of the table, steepling his fingers, and stared at his guests.
‘Now then, what did you really come here for?’ he asked, his tone as condescending as before.
‘You have a prisoner here,’ the bounty hunter answered. ‘A thief named Ferricks. I want him.’
Sir Lutriel’s face spread into an amused smile. ‘And what if I am not prepared to hand him over to you?’ The crafty look returned to the Bretonnian’s eyes. ‘I wonder what Brunner, the notorious bounty killer, wants with such a miserable and insignificant villain. I don’t think the duc ever offered more than three pieces of gold for the reptile, and he will hardly offer such a sum for him again.’
‘He may be able to lead us to the lair of the murdering swine that killed my father,’ snarled Josef. Sir Lutriel turned his gaze on the boy, the amused smile returning to his face.
‘It has been my experience that revenge rarely pays well, certainly not well enough to fabricate an acceptable lie for the duc when I fail to produce this man for the noose next week.’
‘This man was one of the Black Prince’s captains,’ Stoecker stated in a flat, almost matter-of-fact tone. The statement brought a look of surprise to the smug knight’s face. The man rubbed at his chin with a gloved hand.
‘The Black Prince?’ he mused aloud. ‘Perhaps in this instance revenge does pay well. Very well indeed.’ He stared hard at the writer. ‘You are certain of this? But of course you are, otherwise Brunner would hardly have come here.’ The knight allowed himself a chuckle, the sound rattling about like bones in a grave. ‘I think perhaps we might be able to do business after all. Of course, I shall expect a generous portion of the king’s bounty.’
‘How much?’ Brunner’s voice hissed.
‘Oh, I am not a greedy man,’ Sir Lutriel gasped, his tone putting the lie to his words. ‘The king is offering a tidy amount for this brigand prince. I think that two thousand is not too much to ask for me to play my role in this enterprise.’
‘You’ll get one,’ the bounty hunter’s voice rasped.
‘Shall we split the difference?’ Sir Lutriel retorted. ‘I will accompany you to ensure the return on my investment. Or perhaps I should just take this man and try and find the bandit’s stronghold on my own?’ The threat lingered in the air between the two men. The bounty hunter stared long and hard at the knight, but even his murderous gaze was not enough to sway the Bretonnian. After a few tense moments, Brunner turned from Sir Lutriel.
‘Take me to Ferricks,’ he said. ‘Before I change my mind.’
Sir Lutriel smiled, enjoying his small victory over the infamous killer. But Stoecker wondered about the ease with which the knight had made his point. He had never seen Brunner back down from anyone before. He doubted the bounty hunter had ever allowed another man to get the better of him.
The writer wondered if Sir Lutriel had truly gained something, or if he had done exactly as the bounty hunter wanted him to.
The dungeons were a maze of dank, narrow halls that wound below the tower in a winding, spiral fashion. Rats scurried from cracks in the walls, snapping at the light cast by Sir Lutriel’s torch before scurrying back into the shadows. Stoecker broke into a sweat every time the rodents appeared; he was unpleasantly reminded of another such creature he had seen in the bounty hunter’s company.
The knight led the men down the spiral of uneven stone steps, deep into the dismal shadow.
As they passed one cell, a thin, pleading voice cried out. Brunner turned, staring at the cell door. He walked over, and peered into the chamber behind the iron grille. A thin, bedraggled figure with a pointed beard stared back at him.
‘Brunner!’ the prisoner cried. ‘It’s me, Mahlinbois! Praise the Lady!’ A set of thin, pale fingers clutched at the bars of the iron grille. ‘You have to get me out of here! They mean to burn me at the stake for consorting with daemons!’
‘And have you been?’ Brunner asked, his voice betraying a spark of humour.
‘How can you ask such a thing?’ Mahlinbois responded. ‘I am an honest conjurer.’ The grimy figure drew himself up with all the pride his tattered raiment would allow.
‘A friend of yours?’ Sir Lutriel’s snide voice interrupted. ‘It is a dangerous thing to be too familiar with sorcerers.’ The bounty hunter turned on the knight.
‘Open the door,’ he ordered. A smug expression appeared on Sir Lutriel’s face, as though a fox had just asked a watchdog for the keys to the chicken coop.
‘You overstep your bounds, Imperial.’ The stress the knight placed on the last word left no doubt that it was said as an insult. ‘This is my tower, filled with my men. I give the orders here, not you.’
‘We need him,’ the bounty hunter stated. ‘Unless you wish to face a sorcerer without any magic of your own?’
‘I should think we would be better off with the duc’s pet wizard,’ Sir Lutriel sneered. ‘This wretch was hardly worth capturing.’
‘And yet you say he summons daemons,’ Stoecker pointed out.
‘If your swine had not waited until I was sleeping off a night of ill-advised excess at the brothel, they would never have laid a hand on me!’ snapped Mahlinbois, his words fiery with outrage.
‘Perhaps he is no daemonologist,’ the knight continued, knowing that such was the case. ‘Still, it does the people of Parravon good to see a wizard burned at the stake from time to time. It shows that their lords are doing something to combat whatever fiendish things stalk the streets at night.’
‘Perhaps you care to explain to the duc exactly why you need to borrow his own magician?’ Brunner interrupted. Some of the smugness left Sir Lutriel’s face and he advanced on the door, removing the heavy ring of keys from his belt and opening the door slowly.
‘You understand, my
price is back at two thousand now, and I shall expect an equal share of whatever we find in the Black Prince’s stronghold,’ the knight said as he opened the door.
‘The Black Prince!’ exclaimed Mahlinbois as his thin figure emerged from the dark cell. ‘Is that why you need me?’ The unlucky magic-user tugged at the door, trying to close himself back in his cell.
‘You’re the closest thing to a wizard I could find on such short notice,’ Brunner said. Sir Lutriel’s hand closed on the prisoner’s shoulder and pulled him from the cell.
‘Ranald’s Cloak! I’m an illusionist, Brunner. Nothing I create is real!’ Mahlinbois was shoved to one side as Sir Lutriel made his way back to the head of the group. ‘I’m no graduate of the College of Wizardry! My mentor was just a petty charlatan, playing with the very smallest drafts of the winds of magic! I’m no match for a sorcerer!’
‘Perhaps you would rather stay here and be burned?’ Brunner hissed back.
‘Actually, I think I would,’ the frightened illusionist agreed.
‘Too bad, the choice isn’t yours to make,’ Brunner turned, gesturing for Sir Lutriel to proceed. ‘But when this is over, I can bring you back here and they can burn you.’
Mahlinbois waited for a moment, then followed Josef and Stoecker down the stairs.
‘Why couldn’t I just have been an honest thief like my father?’ the magician grumbled as he descended after the bounty hunter.
Ferricks was a rat-faced, spider-like man. As Sir Lutriel hauled him from his cell, and the greasy man blinked up at the group, Brunner found himself wondering if skaven ever sired offspring with goblins.
‘I understand that you haven’t told us quite everything,’ Sir Lutriel said, glowering down at the little man.
‘What? I’ve told you everything I know, about things I haven’t even done and people I never even met,’ the thief uttered his words without pausing for breath. ‘Whatever you want to know now, I did it, and whoever you want to pin it on was there as well.’ The thief uttered a sharp bark of fright as he saw the thorn-like blade Josef had unwrapped.