Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  ‘I unearthed one of your books in Gisoreux,’ Brunner said after he had sipped at his mead. ‘Amazing how far those things have travelled.’

  ‘Everyone appreciates a hero,’ I said. ‘It gives them an escape from the hardships of everyday life.’

  Brunner leaned forward over the table. ‘You should try writing the truth sometime. Write about what really happened. Not some tripe about a noble warrior on a white horse, riding off to right wrongs and champion the weak and punish the wicked.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I shot back, ‘you would prefer me to write about a heartless bastard who would put his sword through Sigmar reborn if he saw gold in such a deed!’ The bounty hunter glared at me for a moment, then laughed grimly.

  ‘Perhaps you have the right of it,’ he said. ‘Nobody wants to face the way things really are. They like their lies and fables.’ He sipped again at his drink. ‘I don’t think many people would appreciate some of the things I’ve seen and done.’

  It is one of the failings of my personality that I have a morbid fascination with tales of horror and the macabre, but I must also admit to a profound interest in the less than stalwart deeds of men such as Brunner. Their very existence on the fringes of society, their ability to kill without question or pity, their amazing knack for surviving against even the greatest odds has become a compelling mystery to me. As I heard the haunted tone in Brunner’s voice, my ears picked up and I set about trying to draw the story out of him. At last, he relented.

  Brunner finished off his mead, wiping the sleeve of his tunic across his lips. Then he settled back and began to speak.

  ‘As you know, some time passed between your departure from Miragliano and my coming to Parravon,’ Brunner rumbled. ‘There are a great many things that happened to me while you were away…’

  BENEATH THE VAULTS

  Nicoletta slowly made her way from the raucous commotion of the large common room that dominated the lower floor of the Purple Kitten. It was a busy night for the notorious Miragliano brothel. No less than seven merchant vessels had docked in the harbour during the day, each having just returned from a long and dangerous voyage to the northern port of Marienburg. But the eagerness of the sailors and mercenary marines to squander their wealth was not attractive to Nicoletta this night. Her mind was troubled, making it difficult for her to abide the crude gaiety of the common room, much less the physical aspects of her trade. Though the hour was not very late, Nicoletta had given her sisters of the night her share of the custom and was now making her way to her small room on the upper floor of the bordello.

  Of course, such a dereliction of her duties was not without its hazards. If Madame Livia were to discover her absence, the best she could expect would be a beating. More likely, the wizened hag would detail Nicoletta to entertain some of the brothel’s more curious customers, and their less than common tastes. Normally, the least appealing of the girls was given such duties, but Madame Livia never failed to threaten her prettier workers with the detail when they were not compliant with her wishes and the demands of business.

  The woman paused before her door. She could hear sounds coming from the other rooms and a part of her mind chided her for her foolishness, for throwing away all the silver and gold she might earn if she would just forget about things. There was nothing she could do, and worrying would solve nothing. She was risking the wrath of her madame by not working. All it would take would be for one of the other girls to discover that she had slipped away and inform the madame and she would have even more problems to occupy her mind. It was no good—the softer, less practical instincts were too strong to wish away with common sense. Nicoletta could not help worrying about her beloved, nor could she distance herself enough from him to ply her trade.

  She had met him years ago, right here in the Purple Kitten. He had cut a dashing figure, a handsome rogue sailor, an adventurer who had travelled to nearly every port Nicoletta had ever heard of. He’d seen the great statues of all the old emperors in Altdorf’s Konigplatz. He’d sailed his ship beneath Marienburg’s high bridge and passed within view of the craggy coasts of the fabled and dreaded Norsca. She’d at once warmed to his rakish charm, aided in no small way by the gold and jewels he had lavished upon her. He’d promised to take her away from the Purple Kitten when he had amassed enough wealth to provide her with a home in whatever city she chose. Unlike the many other infatuated sailors and mercenaries she had entertained, she’d believed Bruno Brega. The small treasures he presented her every time he made port in Miragliano convinced her of his sincerity. One day, Bruno Brega would indeed take her away from Madame Livia and her customers. And, Nicoletta decided, living with the good looking smuggler wouldn’t be such a bad price to pay for her liberty.

  She opened the door and stepped into the darkened room. At once a foul animal reek struck her. She clutched her nose against the smell, her powdered face twisting into a grimace of disgust. It was as if every dog on the Strada dei Cento Peccati had rolled around the overflowing gutters and then pranced about in her room. Nicoletta snarled a curse and stamped across the small room, past the large bed and toward the sole window to lift the shutter and allow the disgusting smell an avenue of escape.

  As the trull made her way through the shadowy room, a patch of darkness detached itself from the wall. Before the woman could react, the apparition had placed itself between her and the door. An arm, wrapped in leather bindings, extended from the shadow; its hand fastened upon the door, and slammed it closed.

  Nicoletta opened her mouth to yell—possibly to gain the attention of the burly toughs that protected Madame Livia’s girls—as she backed away toward one of the walls. But the sound died on her lips as the feeble light from the window illuminated the hand. It was not human at all, but something clawed and twisted and horrible.

  The shadow advanced upon her, and as it came forward, the animal stench filled her lungs. She could only just make out the basic outline of the sinister figure: it was a tall, lean creature, shrouded in a hooded cloak that fell to its thighs. The legs seemed wrong in some way. As the interloper came forward, it seemed as if its knees folded backward and forward at the same time. Hard boots that reflected the dim light from the street encased its feet.

  Nicoletta retreated before the fearsome presence, cringing into some tiny corner of her soul, sobbing like a child. The animal stench grew and Nicoletta could see the visage that observed her from beneath the shadowy hood. The lower face was wrapped in a thick, heavy scarf of rough material, but above the scarf the skin was coarse and swarthy, hirsute and weathered. Eyes gleamed from the masked face—eyes that burned and glowed with an orange light in the darkness.

  Nicoletta trembled, fumbling at the pocket of her dress for the small knife she kept hidden there. The shadow laughed, and then it spoke.

  ‘Ah, my mangy dove,’ the shadow’s voice rasped. It was like a foul wind blowing across a dank bog, bubbling with corruption and decay. ‘I have waited so very long for you to return to your roost.’

  Nicoletta lifted the knife, and held it between herself and the horrible spectre. A scratchy bark-like sound rumbled from below the scarf and with a slow, deliberate gesture the malformed hand gently pulled the knife from the woman’s grasp, dropping the weapon casually upon the floor.

  ‘Do not worry, my mangy dove,’ the shadow laughed. ‘Your dubious honour is safe with me.’ Nicoletta wept a tear of terror as the malformed hand caressed her cheek and slowly slid down her face, lingering on her chin for a moment, before falling to her chest. ‘I have pressing concerns this night, and no time to squander.’ The hand on her chest knocked Nicoletta backwards, causing her to crash on the floor beside her bed. ‘More’s the pity,’ the shadow hissed with a touch of regret.

  Nicoletta started to pick herself up from the floor when the intruder closed upon her once more, pulling her head upwards by the long locks of dark hair. His fingers twisted inside bunches of Nicoletta’s hair, forcing her to stare into the ghastly eyes.

 
‘Tell me what I need to know, my mangy dove, and I shall be about my business.’ The hand gave a hard yank, bringing a sharp gasp of pain from Nicoletta. You do want to be a good little whore and tell me all I want to know, don’t you?’ The shadow paused, relaxing his grip so the girl could nod her head.

  ‘Good,’ the shadow hissed and bubbled. ‘That will save us much unpleasantness. ‘You do, of course, know a man named Bruno Brega?’ Nicoletta’s eyes widened with fear when she heard the gruesome creature speak the name of her beloved, the very man whose well-being had so discomfited her. ‘I need to find him. There are people very interested in his whereabouts. People with very deep purses. Tell me, my mangy dove, where is your admirer?’

  Nicoletta felt a surge of dread welling up inside her—not for herself, but for the man she loved. This greater fear coursed through her, steeling her and providing her with a paltry simulacrum of courage. She croaked a response to the pitiless deeps of the stranger’s cat-like eyes.

  ‘I… I do n-not know… any such man!’ The hand in her hair pulled back hard. She cried out in pain.

  ‘So,’ the shadow’s loathsome voice rasped with mock regret. ‘I see we must do this in a more time-consuming manner.’ Her captor reached beneath the folds of his cloak and drew out a small metal tube, no larger than her knife. One end of the tube was angled and sharp, like the point of a scribe’s pen. The entire implement was hollow like a flute.

  The intruder crouched over Nicoletta, twisting her head around so far it almost snapped her neck. He stared into the woman’s terrified orbs. Her mouth opened again, but the hand clutching the metal tube pressed itself against her lips, stifling her words. A trio of short sounds issued from the shadow, like the gentle reprimand of a disappointed parent.

  ‘I lied, of course, my mangy dove,’ the shadow rasped. ‘No matter what lies you chose to tell me, we would have come to this. Perhaps you even have a mind to tell me the truth, now.’ He laughed once more. ‘I shall know soon enough what there is in that pretty little head.’

  With a swift motion, the intruder stabbed the metal tube into Nicoletta’s skull. There was a dull crunch as the implement broke through bone. The woman’s body spasmed in the shadow’s grasp, but the iron grip held her firm. The shadow’s distorted hand pawed at its face for a moment, pulling the scarf away.

  Its lips hovered over the metal tube and then the shadow began to drink the dying woman’s memories.

  On the landward side of Miragliano vast marshlands stretched for many leagues—shallow lakes of tall marsh grass interrupted by small islands of more stable ground. Scows and barges were the means of transport here. Enterprising merchants collected the fresh water of the marsh to sell to the thirsty citizens of the city. Beyond the many leagues of the marshlands were gently sloping hills and meadows, vast cultivated fields of grains and vegetables, orchards of fruit trees, rambling vineyards and great spreads of pasture for cattle and sheep. This was Miragliano’s breadbasket, protected by forts garrisoned by the soldiers of Prince Borgio himself, who was strategist enough to understand that a hungry army would win none of Miragliano’s many wars.

  But soon after the last fort had been passed, the cultivated lands faded. Here the landscape grew more desolate, stands of thin-boled trees grew in unmanaged, confused clusters, brush crept ever nearer to the few roads and paths, threatening to consume them. The rolling hills sheltered deep shadowy hollows, places where the hot Tilean sun could not reach. This ungoverned region was home only to a few hardy trappers and woodsmen, hunters and foresters who wrenched their livelihood from the wilds. Packs of beastmen roamed these places; small tribes of orcs and goblins eked out a miserable and tenuous existence preying upon the weakest of the merchant caravans that dared to brave the ill-kept roads. Bands of human predators lurked alongside the monsters—outlaws and deserters from the numerous mercenary companies employed by the many merchant princes. Wise was the traveller who trusted no man he encountered in these lonely wilds.

  Five men stood in a small circle before the ruins of an old, ramshackle hunter’s cabin. On the ground between them, a sixth man lay, arms and legs spread to either side of his body. He was secured to wooden stakes by thick loops of rope. The standing men all sported similar dark clothing, piecemeal armour and a motley array of weapons. They each wore an expression of cruelty and avarice.

  The darkly handsome Tilean features of the man on the ground were ashen with fear. He knew these men, and he knew he had every reason to be afraid.

  ‘Come now, Bruno,’ a giant of a man grunted through his thick black beard. ‘Tell us where you hid the gold, so we can just kill you and have done with it.’ The huge man’s dirty hand fell to one of the dozen knives criss-crossing his massive belly on a worn leather bandoleer. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to cut you some. I’d like that, but I can guarantee you won’t enjoy it!’

  ‘I told you before,’ the man stretched between the stakes spoke from his bruised face. ‘He didn’t pay me! The bastard tried to kill me after I delivered it to him!’

  ‘Don’t lie to us!’ spat a thin man whose nose was scarred with a knife wound. ‘You should have played square with us, Brega!’ He kicked the prostrate man in the ribs, bringing forth a groan of pain. ‘Not so smart after all, eh? Cheatin’ us is the last thing you shoulda done!’

  ‘I should have let them hang you in Tobaro when I had the chance, Sollima!’ snarled Brega, struggling against his bonds. The thin Sollima rewarded the captive’s efforts with another boot into his ribs.

  ‘Are we gonna beat him to death or find out where he hid the gold?’ growled another of the men—a tall man wearing a studded leather tunic and an old battered helmet.

  ‘You heard him, Bruno,’ said the giant with the collection of knives. ‘Do you tell us where the gold is, or do we beat you to death?’

  ‘The Dark Gods rot your flesh, Nuccio! There is no gold!’ Brega lifted his head from the ground to roar at his captors.

  ‘As you like, Bruno,’ the hulking Nuccio replied, drawing a knife from his bandoleer. ‘Two of you hold him down. It takes a steady hand to peel flesh from bone.’

  Two of the men descended upon Brega, grabbing hold of his body and forcing him to lie still. Brega spat a glob of phlegm into the face of Nuccio as the butcher leaned over him. The giant paused a moment, wiping the spit from his beard, then a grim smile grew across his features. This was going to be fun.

  ‘Ranald’s cloak, who is that?’ exclaimed the thin Sollima in a whiny tone. Nuccio looked up, the knife now inches from Brega’s face.

  An armoured shape strode into the clearing, its chest encased in metal, and its face hidden by the blackened steel of an Imperial-style sallet helm. A cloak of grey cloth was draped about the man’s right arm. His left arm rested casually against the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side.

  The five ruffians glared at the lone warrior.

  ‘I hate to intrude upon your entertainment,’ the warrior said in a voice as cold as steel, ‘but I need your playmate.’

  ‘A poor jest,’ grunted Nuccio, as he rose to tower above his fellow smugglers. Each of the men was now fingering the hilts of their weapons. The prisoner was momentarily forgotten. ‘And one that is going to cost you.’ Nuccio nodded to two of his comrades who began to stalk away to the right, while the others began to circle to the left. ‘If you have a god, pray to him.’ Nuccio took a step forward, drawing a fat-bladed sword.

  The warrior did not wait for the man to close in on him, nor did he wait for the other ruffians who were tightening the circle around him. Throwing back his cloak, he revealed the curious crossbow gripped in his gloved hand. It was a strange device of inhuman construction, with a box-like mechanism set on top of it. Before Nuccio could more than register the fact that the interloper held a weapon in his hand, the steel bow string had snapped three times in rapid succession. The first bolt smashed into the large man’s breastbone. The second tore through his windpipe. The third broke his teeth before burying itself in the rear o
f his mouth. The brutish thug silently toppled backward, like a felled tree.

  Brunner turned from the slain Nuccio, and trained the skaven-made weapon on the rogues to his left. The men were staring in open-mouthed horror at the carnage the bounty hunter had delivered upon their leader. As soon as they realised that Brunner’s weapon was now trained on them, the two thieves turned and ran. Brunner could hear their comrades to his right already crashing through the brush and brambles.

  The bounty hunter cradled his weapon in his arms. The murderous bow was indeed a fair payment for his infiltration of the dungeons of Karl-Franz. He was grateful to the sinister little ratman he had met in the Dancing Fox.

  Brega emitted a muffled groan. Brunner strode forward, and stared down at the man pinned beneath the giant Nuccio. He coughed, the dead weight of Nuccio crushing the air from his lungs. Brunner smiled down at the trapped man, then rolled the hulking body to one side.

  ‘The grace of all the gods be yours, stranger,’ gasped Brega after he had recovered his breath. ‘I thought I was carrion for certain.’ Brega tugged at the bindings lashed about his left arm, as if to alert his saviour to his predicament. But his saviour had other matters to attend to. The bounty hunter turned from the prisoner and crouched over Nuccio’s corpse.

  Brega craned his neck as far as he could to see what the killer was doing. He soon wished that he hadn’t. Brunner was leaning on the slain ruffian’s chest, a flat wedge-like device gripped in his gloved hand. Brega watched in horror as the man quickly pried the three crossbow bolts from Nuccio’s body. He raised each bolt to his visor as he pried them from the corpse. The one dug out of Nuccio’s chest was discarded into the dust. The others he put back into the boxlike magazine of the crossbow. Then the bounty hunter’s hand fell upon the pommel of the massive knife sheathed between pistol and sword on his belt. Brunner freed the blade, its serrated edge gleaming in the light, then he leaned back over Nuccio’s body.