Brunner the Bounty Hunter
Page 39
Sollima and the bearded smuggler watched their comrade’s demise. Both men gave a yelp of fright as a gory object was tossed into the area illuminated by the fire. It landed beside the dead smuggler’s arm. It was his throat.
Their attacker strode forward, its movements peculiar and inhuman. An animal reek overwhelmed even the stink of burning flesh rising from the fire pit.
Eerie eyes stared from the black shadow of its head, reflecting the flickering light of the fire with an orange luminosity. It was roughly human in shape, shrouded in a hooded garment cast about its shoulders. As the two smugglers watched, their shadowy attacker drew a curved sword from a scabbard on its belt.
‘I have questions,’ the shadow spoke in a terrifying rasping croak. ‘You will answer them for me.’ The thing stepped further into the light, allowing the two men to see its twisted form. Its head swept from side to side, fixing each of the men with its ghastly gaze, despite the darkness. ‘You will tell me everything,’ the rasping voice gurgled, ‘before you die.’
With a snarl of his own, the bearded smuggler fired his crossbow at the monster. The shape dropped to a crouch with impossible speed and the bolt whistled over its cowled head. Before the man could reload, the shape sprang up and leapt forward like a pouncing tiger. Sollima could not see the creature any longer, as it disappeared into the patch of darkness the other smuggler was hiding in. But he could hear what ensued. The sound of screams. The sound of tearing cloth. The sound of flesh being ripped from bone.
Orange eyes gleamed at Sollima from the shadows. The smuggler watched as the creature walked back into the light. Blood covered its arms and dripped from its hands. It gestured toward Sollima with its unbloodied sword. The smuggler cringed backwards, his back crushed against the timber wall.
‘You are dead,’ the creature hissed. ‘Slow or long, it is your choice how you die. Choose quickly.’
Sollima gave a shriek of fright, throwing his sword and shield away. He scrambled forward, dropping to his hands and knees as he entered the circle of light. Tears of terror dripped from his eyes, and inarticulate sobs escaped from his chest.
‘Please,’ he gasped between sobbing breaths. ‘I’ll tell you whatever you want! Don’t kill me!’
The shadow bent down over the weeping smuggler. One of its malformed hands closed about the man’s chin, forcing his face upward. The other wiped away the man’s tears, leaving smears of blood as it removed the watery trails. The orange eyes burned from the shadows of the hood.
‘Tell me, little rabbit,’ the rasping gurgle croaked. ‘Where is Bruno Brega?’
The shadow was as immobile as a statue. Between choking sobs, Sollima related what had befallen them, how they had captured their former leader only to lose him to the armoured bounty hunter. When the smuggler had finished his story, the shadow made a strange, dry sound like the yapping of a parched jackal.
‘Brunner,’ the shape chuckled. ‘You think to take my merchandise to market.’ Another bestial laugh hissed from the grim shadow. ‘I think not. I’ve followed your scent before.’ Orange eyes fixed their gaze upon the cringeing, pitiful man at the shadow’s feet.
‘You’ve done well to tell me this,’ the shadow croaked. ‘But it is best that I ensure the truth of your words.’ Sollima gave another squeal of fright as the hand on his chin closed about his lower jaw, crushing the bone with a grasp as strong as steel. He squirmed in agony, batting ineffectually at the hand that held him. His thrashings became still more desperate as he saw the shadow remove a small hollow tube of metal from its clothing.
‘You’ve been deceived, little rabbit,’ the shadow hissed, firming its grip upon the metal implement. ‘You have no choice in how you die.’
‘Under the mountains,’ Brega mumbled to himself for the hundredth time as Brunner led the horses along a narrow deer run that wove its way through the tall, imposing pines that had surrounded them for the past two days. Since they had resumed their journey after their camp on the first night, the bounty hunter had at least allowed him to sit upright on his horse. It was some small comfort not to be lugged about like a sack of grain. The smuggler straightened himself up in the saddle, and sneered down at the bounty hunter as he walked ahead of his mount, the massive bay, Fiend. ‘You know, you have quite a reputation,’ he said. ‘But I had never heard that you were mad!’
Brunner did not deign to reply, intent upon the meagre trail ahead. Suddenly, the bounty hunter turned his head, staring off into the woods. Behind him, Brega stiffened—cold fear ran through his body. What had the killer heard, he wondered? Bound as he was, Brega would be defenceless if they were attacked. And in the wild and forsaken foothills at the base of the Vaults, anything could be stalking the forest. ‘What is it?’ Brega demanded, his voice somewhat shrill. ‘What did you hear?’
‘Nothing,’ replied the bounty hunter, stalking back to Brega’s steed. Brunner grabbed the smuggler about the waist and roughly shoved him from the saddle. Brega crashed to earth, landing hard in a patch of ferns. Groans of pain emanated from the man. Brunner ignored them. He strode over to the fallen thief and pulled him to his feet.
‘What are you doing?’ Brega groaned. Suddenly a vile odour, like an army’s privy, washed over them both.
‘Hunting,’ the bounty hunter responded, drawing a black powder pistol from its belly holster. With his other hand, he grabbed the rope binding Brega’s hands together. ‘You’re going to help me.’
Without another word, Brunner strode from the trail, dragging the protesting smuggler behind him.
The foul stink grew as Brunner led Brega deeper into the forest. Brega corrected himself: it was more like the stench of an enormous army privy. He was amazed that anything could grow in such an atmosphere, that the leaves on the ferns and bushes hadn’t curled up and died from being immersed in such a vile miasma. His fear increased as the bounty hunter continued onwards. There could be no question, he was heading toward the source of the smell. Brega trembled as he contemplated the manner of hideous charnel that might be the source of the reek. Worse, he wondered what sort of beings might dwell in such a place? Nightmare tales of undead horrors and the twisted perversions of Chaos gathered in his mind.
At last, when the smell had grown strong enough to bring tears to Brega’s eyes, the trees parted into a slight clearing. A massive old oak tree dominated the far side of the clearing. It was ancient, its bulk as wide as a house. It was also dying: half of its branches were bare and twisted as the claws of a skeleton, many others sported sickly yellow leaves. The huge, serpent-like roots of the tree bulged from the dirt. And beneath them, the ground had been undermined, small holes angled downward into the earth. Only a few yards from the holes lay a huge pile of greasy black and green matter. Black horseflies buzzed about the reeking pile. The sight of the dung mound made Brega retch.
Small figures prowled about the openings of the holes. They were slight, thin-limbed creatures, somewhat like malnourished children in overall shape. Their heads were large, with long sharp noses, and pointed dog-like ears. Their grinning mouths were filled with sharp teeth. None of them was more than twenty inches high, and none wore more than a grimy scrap of cloth or fur about its waist. The pallid green skin of the creatures was hairless and glistened like the hide of a salamander.
The miserable things turned as the two men entered the clearing. Scores of tiny red eyes considered the bounty hunter and his prisoner.
Brunner did not meet their confused, idiot gazes, but carefully sighted his pistol on the largest of the snotlings, whose arms were cradled about a rusty kitchen knife as though it were a great sword.
Brunner fired the pistol. The shot pulverised the tiny goblinoid, shattering its head and shoulders, and spraying its fellows with a greasy green paste. The other snotlings mewled pathetically as the roar of the pistol echoed about the clearing. They dropped whatever they were carrying and scrambled back into their holes.
Brunner holstered his pistol and pulled a leather bag from his b
elt.
‘That will keep their heads down until their tiny brains forget why they are hiding,’ Brunner declared. He thrust the bag into Brega’s hands.
‘What do you want me to do with this?’ the smuggler demanded. Brunner pointed a gloved finger at the pile of snotling shit.
Brega blanched. ‘Shoot me now! I’m not touching that!’ Brunner shrugged his shoulders and began to draw the Headsman from its sheath.
‘Why do you want snotling manure?’ Brega asked as he stepped toward the offensive heap. Brunner slid the partially drawn knife back into its sheath.
‘Where we are going, it will be beneficial for us to stink like a snotling set,’ the bounty hunter explained. ‘Anything that catches wind of us will think we are snotlings,’ Brunner gestured at the exploded snotling carcass. ‘Not much meat on those. Not many creatures can stomach eating something that wallows in its own dung. The things that do put snotling on their menu are small, and easily dealt with,’ Brunner gestured for Brega to get to work.
‘Can I at least have something to shovel with?’ Brega complained as he crouched beside the mound, face wrinkled in disgust.
‘No,’ Brunner answered. ‘And make sure you fill the bag.’
The bounty hunter’s destination came into view a half-day’s ride from the snotling set. From the rise of a low hill, Brunner stared down, his keen gaze focused upon the great gaping hole in the side of the mountain.
It was a colossal, imposing portal that put the great city gates of Altdorf to shame. Nearly fifty feet wide, and just as tall, the massive doorway was supported by gigantic granite columns that were twenty feet broad at their base. The entire length of the columns was engraved and sculpted. Scrolling and runes had been carved with consummate skill into the tough, ancient stone. Several figures had once been carved into the sides of the columns, ordered in ranks like a silent company of guardsmen, but they had all been defaced and vandalised. Shards of their stone faces peered upward from the rubble that had collected beneath the archway between the columns. Crude symbols in blood and other rude pigments had been daubed over the figures, robbing them further of their silent dignity.
Between the hill and the doorway, the land was littered with boulders and heaps of stone, their sprawl quietly suggesting the outlines of long-collapsed buildings, of forgotten walls and ruined towers. From a small grassy knoll, part of a grim, bearded marble head glowered at the two riders, as though it were angered at this additional violation of the dead settlement. Brunner did not spare a second glance at the giant stone head. He did not honour his own gods, and he would not honour those of another race.
‘Ranald’s cloak!’ exclaimed Brega. ‘Where are we?’ There was awe in his voice. He had visited some of the greatest cities of the Empire such as Altdorf and Marienburg but the ponderous mass here belittled the walls and fortresses of men.
‘It is our road through the mountains,’ explained Brunner, eyes still prowling the wasted piles of rubble. His gaze sought to penetrate the dark, shadowy cavern between the columns. ‘I learned of this road years ago, from a dwarf who once plied my trade. In ages past it was a great stronghold of the Ever-Kingdom. But it fell, like so many of the great dwarf cities. To fire and earthquake and goblin, it fell, nearly a thousand years ago.’ Brunner’s voice had dropped into a strange, sombre tone, as if the age of the ruins, and the weight of their history, had forced a measure of respect into his tones. ‘Only a few of the dwarfs still use this road, for it is long and perilous. Even among their kind, there are not many brave enough to enter the darkness beneath the Vaults. Among men, there are even fewer.’
Brunner favoured Brega with a cold, icy smile. ‘After the shadows of Karag-dar, you may find even the Reiksfang prison a comforting sight.’
The bounty hunter nudged Fiend with his spurs and the horse began to walk slowly down the hill, pulling his grey packhorse Paychest and Brega’s steed after it.
‘There are things in dark, forgotten places more fearsome than pain and agony and the red ruin of Judge Vaulkberg’s mercy,’ the bounty hunter said in a low voice.
Ahead, the great cavern-like door of Karag-dar yawned like the mouth of a giant beast, eager to consume them.
Beyond the gaping doorway of Karag-dar, all was darkness and silence. The brooding antiquity seemed tangible; even the horses were ill at ease. Brega swallowed the lump in his throat, his breath turning to laboured gulps, as though the pressure of the weight of the Vaults was seeping into the tunnel and making even the air heavy. Ahead of him, Brunner dismounted, and made his way back to Paychest to remove a lantern and some oil from a pack fastened to the animal’s back.
The light of the lantern revealed a gigantic chamber just beyond the great doorway. Tall rectangular columns reached up into the mountain, each of which was topped by a bearded dwarf whose outspread arms and arched back supported the ceiling high above. Each of the twenty pillars was thus adorned. But no two of the giant statues were alike; each one was meticulously sculpted to preserve the likeness of some ancestor lord who had died before Karag-dar was founded.
The bounty hunter played the light of the lantern across the length of the chamber. Once this had been a sort of trading post, where the dwarfs had swapped weapons of steel for grain and meat with the primitive tribes who would one day become the Tilean people. Great doors of steel had once towered within the doorway, protecting this hall from any outside invader. But those doors were now broken and dismantled, their steel scavenged by goblins and orcs to craft crude implements of slaughter. Brunner considered the empty doorway for a moment, the light of the sun streaming between the columns, past the ranks of defaced stone sentinels. Then he trained the light towards the interior of the mountain.
The stalls of the dwarf merchants were long gone, the stone cast down and carried away, the wood rotted and decayed into dust. Only the great flute of the canal that had run from deep within the stronghold to this chamber broke the emptiness of the hall. A thin trickle of water still flowed along it, feeding into a simple granite cistern, the fish and cave frogs carved upon it broken and defaced, and covered with a spongy yellow mould.
Playing the light of the lantern still further into the hall, Brunner could see the far wall, flanked by columns just as ponderous and elaborate as those at the entrance to the mountain. There, he knew, was the true beginning of the stronghold, the true entrance to the night world that had once been Karag-dar. He stared for some time at the dark, gaping opening between the columns where a second set of steel doors had once stood. At last, he was content that there was no furtive shape lingering in the darkness. Nevertheless he listened for a moment more, then turned his attention back to Paychest. He removed a bundle from the packhorse and strode back towards Brega.
‘You’re mad,’ the smuggler gasped. ‘We’ll die! You can’t take me in there!’
The bounty hunter ignored him and removed the foul-smelling sack tied behind Brega’s saddle. Then he strode back toward Fiend. Undoing the first bundle, Brunner removed some crude hide leggings, slit along their backs. He tied four of these to Fiend’s legs. Then he dipped his hand into the bag of snotling filth. Fiend snorted in protest as the bounty hunter lifted the dung from the sack. Brunner patted the animal’s flank by way of apology, then began to smear the muck on the hide leggings.
‘I’ve used this road before,’ Brunner commented as he rose from his task and repeated his labour on Paychest. ‘And come out alive.’ The bounty hunter looked over at his prisoner. ‘Keep your head, and you will too.’ Brega found the chuckle that accompanied Brunner’s remark almost as unsettling as the tunnel itself.
‘Look, I have quite a bit of gold stashed away…’ Brega pleaded. Brunner strode toward the smuggler’s horse. He looked at the man for a moment, as though considering his proposal. Then, without warning, he pushed Brega from the saddle. The bound man struck the floor hard, crying out as he landed. Brunner ignored the man’s painful moans and tied the remaining hide leggings to Brega’s steed.
‘Can’t have some critter down here thinking that you are for eating, can I?’ Brunner laughed. He bent down, picked up the rope and began to walk off. Brega scrambled on his knees after the bounty hunter, trying to keep from being dragged by his captor.
Brunner fastened the rope to the saddle on Fiend’s back, then calmly checked the magazine of his repeating crossbow as he drew it from its holster on the saddle.
‘The gun’s not loaded,’ he said, indicating the weapon sheathed on the other side of the horse. ‘And I thought it best if I kept hold of this.’
‘You can’t take me in there without any protection!’ cried Brega.
‘I’m your protection,’ the bounty hunter replied. ‘You’re worth a lot to me… alive. I don’t intend to let anything happen to you.’ Brunner smiled at his prisoner. ‘Not until I’m paid, anyway.’
The bounty hunter turned away, narrowing the beam of the lantern to a slender dagger of light. Taking hold of Fiend’s reins, he began to walk both the animals and Brega toward the deeper darkness beyond the inner doorway.