Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  The sword cut into Brunner’s shoulder guard, nearly penetrating the metal. The bounty hunter counter-attacked, but found the elf’s sword about to intercept his own. Taking a note from his foe, Brunner dropped low, letting the blade slide across the top of his helmet. The dark elf at once realised his exposure and brought his sword whisking downward to intercept any new attack.

  Instead of lashing out at Drannach, Brunner thrust with his sword to his side and rear, slashing at the furred flank of the embattled griffon. The dark elf’s eyes grew wide with fright as the monster turned about, snarling, ropes of gore dribbling from its claws and beak. The smug self-assurance of Drannach faded and the elf brought his sword up to block the talon-ridden paw that slashed out at him. The blade broke as the griffon’s ponderous blow batted it aside. The paw smashed into the dark elf, throwing him across the hall and into the far side of the pit. Drannach’s fall was arrested as his body struck the fangs of iron that framed the pit, the force of his impact impaling his body on the spikes. The minion of the Black Prince spat thin, greasy blood, then grew still. As life faded from his frame, his dead weight caused his body to slowly slide from the spikes and complete its descent to the sandy floor.

  Brunner took advantage of the griffon’s attack on the dark elf to dive under its legs, choosing the most dangerous, but most certain route away from the monster’s snapping beak. A kettle-helm wearing bandit attacked him as he rolled clear of the monster, but the bounty hunter’s left hand grasped a throwing knife as he completed his roll, and it was but the blinking of an eye before the bounty hunter had hurled the weapon deep into the bandit’s chest. As the man sagged to the ground, two of his comrades closed on Brunner, while the rest of their number, led by the hulking beastman Urgmesh, desperately tried to stop the griffon’s rampage.

  Lithelain skewered the throat of the last bandit foolish enough to get in his way, and sprinted toward the open doorway. As he ran, a voice from the direction of the Black Prince’s throne called to him. The elf hesitated, seeing Josef chained to the dais, his hands outstretched in a pleading gesture. The elf muttered a low curse and ran to the boy. He raised his sword as he reached Josef, then brought the edge against the taut length of chain with a swift and steady strike. The chain parted, the severed link flying off into the shadows. Lithelain nodded his head solemnly at the freed youth, then turned to continue his pursuit of the Black Prince. But no sooner had he turned, than a solid weight smashed into the back of his skull. The elf gasped, then slumped on the dais steps.

  Josef let the length of chain he had coiled about his hands fall slack, and stooped, removing Lithelain’s sword from his slackened grasp. Josef looked down at the stunned elf, his face a study in hate and determination.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but the bastard is mine.’

  Firming his grasp on the curiously balanced sword, Josef jumped from the dais and ran into the dark corridor.

  The griffon continued its onslaught, catching another spear-armed bandit and slashing the man in half with its claws. The bandit beside the butchered man gave a cry of terror, turning to flee. But he found his retreat blocked by a massive, shaggy form. Urgmesh ripped the halberd from the man’s hands, then flung him aside.

  In silence, the huge beastman closed upon the griffon, allowing the monster to be distracted by the war cries and screams of a cluster of human bandits who were trying to attack its flanks. The dog-headed brute lumbered forward, raising the halberd over his head, and watching as the griffon swung its own head from side to side, swiping with first one paw, then the other. With a snarl, the beastman attacked, letting the heavy axe-blade smash through the thick bone of the griffon’s foreleg.

  The griffon screeched in agony as the maimed limb hung limp and broken. It snapped at Urgmesh, but he had already withdrawn, growling for the human rabble to attack. A half-dozen swords and spears stabbed into the tortured creature’s flesh. The griffon stumbled about, its movements slow and even more ungainly than before. Blood cascaded from the punctures along its body, drenching its fur and feathers with gluey red gore. The griffon’s beak opened and a great bubble of blood burst from its stained beak.

  Urgmesh snarled a new command, and a bandit who had kept himself from the fighting thus far advanced. He wore the colourful surcoat of a Bretonnian knight tied about his waist, and in his hands he held a wide-barrelled contraption of steel and wood. Alone among the bandit throng, he had come armed with more than sword and dirk. He was carrying his valuable blunderbuss more to guard it against the thieving inclinations of his comrades than any premonition of trouble. Now the brigand crouched and aimed the weapon at the wounded monster. A murderous smile split the man’s coarse features as the blind head of the griffon swung in his direction once more. The man released the hammer of his firearm and the mouth of the blunderbuss spat a gout of smoke and flame. The griffon howled in agony as a hail of metal shrapnel tore through its face, digging pits into its skull. It reared onto its hind legs, roaring in fury and pain, then slumped onto its side, smashing a bandit beneath its dying bulk. The other bandits attacked the monster’s body with a vengeance, stabbing it again and again.

  Brunner watched the griffon fall, and uttered a curse on all the fickleness of all the gods of battle. He looked about the chamber. Stoecker was duelling with a lone bandit, a heavy-set lout with a wolfskin cap. Mahlinbois was fumbling in the leather satchel that held his implements, desperation now filling his face. Looking at the dais, the bounty hunter saw that Josef was gone. Ferricks and Lithelain were likewise nowhere to be seen. But there was no dearth of enemies: fully a dozen of the Black Prince’s scum were still in condition to do battle. The bounty hunter cursed again, drew his pistol from its holster and prepared to meet the onslaught of the brigands.

  Urgmesh roared, the sound bestial and triumphant. The beastman’s misshapen head turned about the chamber, looking for another foe to slay. His eyes fell upon the dark haired man fencing with one of the bandits. The monster snarled again, eager to kill. Urgmesh rushed forward, charging past the rest of the brigands. He closed upon the embattled writer. The first sweep of the halberd nearly beheaded both men, as it swept above them, striking sparks from the stone wall. The bandit gave a yelp of fright, withdrawing from the hulking beastman’s advance. Urgmesh ignored the rogue, his rage-filled eyes locked on Stoecker.

  The writer adopted a defensive stance, not relishing his chances against the inhuman bruiser. The beastman snickered derisively as he saw the swordsman prepare himself, enjoying the sight before hurling his huge body at the writer. The halberd slashed downwards, only narrowly missing Stoecker’s body as the writer forced the cleaving blade aside with the flat of his sword. The beastman grunted, then lashed out again. This time, the strength of the monster’s blow pushed Stoecker back several steps, and he groaned with horror as he saw the deep notch the axe-head had made in the metal of his blade.

  The first rule of swordplay, the writer recalled, was to keep all emotion from your blade. Fear, anger, could turn even the most skilled sword into the clumsy cleaver of an orc. A swordsman who was in complete command of himself, who knew he would triumph over his foe, was more deadly than the most flamboyant Talabheim rake. Stoecker tried to cling to the half-remembered speech the fencing instructor had made, but with the hulking, stinking beastman inches from his face, its hot breath washing over him, he felt anything but calm.

  At the very edge of the battlefield, Mahlinbois wrapped the length of musty grey cloth about the gunpowder candle. Muttering a prayer to Ranald the Trickster, the illusionist began his incantation. The cloth had been torn from the shroud of a reputed necromancer. Now the Bretonnian magician would discover if the man’s deeds had indeed been as vile as rumour had coloured them.

  Brunner closed upon the bandits, the shot from his pistol blasting apart the skull of his first enemy. He reversed his grip on the firearm, wielding its heavy butt like a mugger’s sap. He met the attack of the men advancing upon him, smashing the sword from one man’s
hand with the pistol, crushing the bones of his fingers. Meanwhile he swept the edge of his blade through the knee of one of his companions.

  The bounty hunter was under no illusion about his ability to overcome so many foes, but he was determined that he would give them such a reckoning before he fell that those who walked away from this fight would speak his name with fear all the rest of their days. As the men continued to slash at him, and as he found himself hard pressed to block their attacks, Brunner’s eyes beheld the bandit with the blunderbuss reloading his weapon. There was a sneer on the rogue’s face as he rose from his crouch, aiming the loaded weapon at the bounty hunter. Brunner cursed once more, realising that there was little chance of avoiding the weapon’s blast. It might not kill him at this distance, but even a minor injury would leave him open to the swords of the blackguard’s comrades. And the bounty hunter knew that the bandit would not hesitate to fire, even with his companions in the way.

  Suddenly, the face of the gunner grew pale. The bandits facing Brunner grew similarly fearful, as they gazed in horror at the corpse of the griffon. The body was twitching, and rippling with motion. As the rogues watched, the skin spilt apart along the monster’s back, like the rind of a melon under the attention of the hot Tilean sun.

  From the tear in the beast’s flesh, something gaunt and white emerged. First, a claw, then a long leg bone. From the corpse of the slain monster, its skeleton crawled forth, animated with some hideous mockery of life. The griffon’s skull, pock-marked by the blast of the blunderbuss, swayed from side to side. Then the neck craned about, holding the skull rigid. The sightless sockets of the griffon’s skull stared at the bandits with a soundless malevolence.

  The bandit with the blunderbuss screamed, firing his weapon at the undead horror, heedless of the men before him. Three bandits squirmed away as the blunderbuss roared, two clutching at painful burns and gashes in their sides, a third writhing on the floor, clawing at the weeping back of his head. The skeleton was unmoved; the shot had only dug new pock-marks in the bones. The creature took a step forward, loping toward the brigands.

  The silent advance of the skeletal abomination was too much for the men. Screaming, the gunner dropped his treasured blunderbuss and ran from the chamber. Those of his comrades who were able to, followed as best they could, injured men forcing maimed legs to work despite their wounds. Brunner watched the men flee, casting a suspicious look at the skeletal horror looming at his side. A smile flickered on his face.

  Stoecker batted the cleaving blade of the monster aside again, feeling the jarring impact rattle his very bones. Urgmesh grunted, showing his fangs. The beastman would rip the meat from this one’s bones for making him work so hard to kill him. The writer’s sword was notched and ruined, his strength was failing, and his movements slowing. He would not last much longer. But every second he denied the kill to Urgmesh was an insult to the brute. He felt the old man-hate, the fury the Black Prince had taught him to quell, welling up within him once more. The beastman reared his head back, and uttered a deep lowing roar. He recalled the howls of devotion to the Dark Gods he had uttered long ago at the sacred herdstones of his kind. He saw a satisfying look of terror on the face of the frustrating little man, and knew that it was good that the man should know fear. It would make his flesh taste all the sweeter.

  It was the last thing Urgmesh saw. A heavy mass of steel and wood crashed against his head, smashing in the side of his skull, bashing his head against the stone wall, crumpling it as it impacted with the hard wall. The beastman sank to his knees, sliding down the wall, leaving a gory slick behind as he fell. Brunner took no chances, however. He lifted the blunderbuss over his head with both hands and brought it crashing down into the beastman’s skull once more, snapping his neck. The bounty hunter looked away from the foul corpse, and stared at the writer.

  ‘Happy you came along now?’ the bounty hunter asked. ‘Not quite like one of your stories, is it?’

  Stoecker offered no reply, staring in horror at the skeletal thing that had emerged from the corpse of the griffon. The writer pointed a trembling finger at the apparition. Brunner followed the extended finger, chuckling as he saw the source of Stoecker’s terror.

  ‘I think you can cease your conjuring,’ the bounty hunter said. Almost at once, the skeletal thing disappeared. Where it had been, the corpse of the griffon still sat, unchanged from its moment of death.

  ‘I do not believe I could have maintained the illusion much longer in any event,’ Mahlinbois gasped as he walked toward Brunner and Stoecker. His step was shaky, his limbs trembling with their effort to maintain enough strength to keep him on his feet. Sweat fell from the magician’s pale face.

  ‘You did well enough,’ the bounty hunter said, handing him the battered blunderbuss. Brunner turned, striding toward the doorway near the abandoned dais.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the illusionist and the writer said almost simultaneously.

  ‘After my money,’ the bounty hunter answered.

  ‘But what if they come back?’ asked a frightened and outraged Mahlinbois.

  ‘Threaten them with that,’ Brunner replied, pointing at the blunderbuss.

  ‘But it isn’t loaded!’ complained the magician.

  ‘Convince them it is,’ commented the bounty hunter, striding into the shadowy corridor.

  The Black Prince stood in his throne room, crouched above the teakwood box. He burned with fury. He saw the shape of things now, saw how he had been betrayed, and led to the edge of ruin and death by deception and trickery. But he would set matters right. He would get his revenge. The dark elf threw open the teakwood box, then stepped back.

  Empty. It was empty! A cold, lethal fury gripped the Black Prince as he looked at the cushioned vacancy of the chest. He was still staring at the empty box when, with an almost casual move, he intercepted the sword that sang through the air, whirling towards his neck, catching the blade on the spines on his vambrace. His armoured face turned about. Cruel eyes stared at Josef as the Black Prince closed the steel glove of his free hand about the blade of the stolen sword. The Black Prince tore the weapon from Josef’s fingers, casting it aside like a piece of garbage, then he backhanded the boy with his other hand. Josef landed in a jumble of limbs, his lip split and bleeding. The Black prince rose from his crouch, hand almost casually falling upon the pommels of the twin swords sheathed at his side.

  ‘I am not in a fair humour,’ the elf’s melodious voice stated. ‘Curse whatever gods you hold dear that you are the first to find me in such a mood.’ The elf drew one of the thorn-bladed swords from its sheath. Josef spat blood from his lip at the monster’s feet.

  ‘You killed my father!’ the boy snarled. The elf stood immobile for a moment, as though taken aback by Josef’s outburst. Then the disarming sound of the fiend’s laughter echoed through the chamber.

  ‘And you are ungrateful enough to curse me for such a boon?’ the Black Prince shook his masked head. ‘You should thank me for preserving you from the lies and machinations of your elder. Only with the passing of the father can a son truly become all that he is destined to become, only then can he emerge from the shadow that hovers above him.’ The elf laughed again, noting the enraged fire in Josef’s eyes. ‘But this is something I myself did not learn until this very hour, and you are but vermin and will find no value in the truth.’ The Black Prince stepped toward Josef, watching as the boy scrambled away, crawling before him like a mouse scurrying before a cat. The elf lifted his sword, preparing to stab the steel downward into Josef’s body.

  ‘Face me if there is a drop of courage in your craven carcass!’ a soft, yet thunderous voice called out. The Black Prince hesitated, then turned his body, so that he might keep one eye on the vengeful youth, and another trained upon the challenging voice.

  ‘You shall atone for your misdeeds, monster!’ declared Lithelain, stooping to retrieve his sword from where the dark elf had thrown it. The wood elf extended the blade, pointing it at the Black Prin
ce. The dark elf bowed with mock graciousness, stepping toward Lithelain.

  ‘Ah, a more worthy adversary presents himself,’ the dark elf declared. The Black Prince held his sword against his side, drawing the second blade from its sheath, gripping it by the point where blade and hilt met. Lifting the blade, out to one side, the Black Prince made as if to discard the weapon. But just as he began to toss the weapon aside, he reversed his hold upon it, hurling it like a spear at the wood elf. The thorn-bladed sword nicked the side of Lithelain’s leg, cutting through his leather breeches.

  ‘So, you are one of those filthy tree-dwelling aborigines,’ the Black Prince stated as Lithelain recovered from the unexpected injury. The wood elf swung at the gloating fiend, but the Black Prince’s sword easily caught Lithelain’s blade, and turned it back with a slight push. ‘No Druchii would have fallen for so obvious a deception. But why should I expect cunning from one whose kind could not even outwit those disgusting dwarfs?’ The Black Prince sneered, lashing out with his sword. He met Lithelain’s intercepting steel, twisted about it, and slashed the elf’s shoulder.

  ‘This would already be over if we fought in Naggaroth,’ the Black Prince’s voice laughed. ‘They duel with envenomed blades there.’ The Black Prince struck out again, feinting high, then lunging forward, catching the arm that held Lithelain’s sword with his own free arm. He pulled the wood elf’s body in close and slashed his belly with the fighting spines of his vambrace, while he dug the thornlike projections of his sword’s pommel into the wood elf’s back. The dark elf released his foe, spinning about as he backed away to again intercept the wood elf’s steel.