Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  Deciding at last that no lurking ambushers had remained behind, Brunner urged his animals onward, his pace slightly faster now. Knowing for certain now that there were Chaos-worshippers prowling the vicinity, and in numbers great enough to strike down an armed caravan, the bounty hunter was even more eager to put the wilds behind him.

  A few hours later, as the sun began to set, the bounty hunter came upon a second caravan. The terrain had become even closer, stands of trees with thin trunks and small leaves spreading to either side of the narrow road, permitting only a limited view of whatever might lie just off the road. Brunner was eyeing the woods with great suspicion, knowing that a location such as this would be a prime site to spring another ambush. This caravan, however, was no cluster of burning wreckage and rotting corpses; instead, Brunner found himself gazing upon a half-dozen wagons, laden down with bundles of dyed wool from the north, barrels of olives from the Trantine Hills, and other, less readily identifiable goods.

  The caravan was just making camp for the evening, the wagons arranged into a barricade across either end of the road. Brunner could see several of the drovers bustling about tending their horses while other men prepared a fire at the centre of the camp. The bounty hunter could also see a number of armoured figures prowling about between the wagons, inspecting the makeshift barricade.

  It would be easy to bypass the encamped caravan, but Brunner considered once more the unpleasant nature of the dead raider he had discovered on the site of the massacre. There were some decidedly nasty things about, and it would pay to be cautious until he was safely arrived in Remas. His decision made, the bounty hunter slowly rode toward the camp, one hand casually resting on the grip of his pistol.

  ‘That’s far enough!’ a hard voice called out from the line of wagons when Brunner had come within fifty feet of them. The bounty hunter could see three men aiming weapons in his direction, two crossbows and a bulky-looking handgun. Brunner could see at least another dozen men peering over and beneath the beds of the wagons, some of them drawing blades from their scabbards. He also caught a faint motion from the side of the camp and soon heard the furtive rustle of a body moving stealthily through the trees.

  Brunner reined in his horse, staring for a moment at the speaker. He was an older man, tending toward fat, wearing a gaudy red coat of some heavy cloth, an outrageously plumed hat scrunched onto his head. The man’s full-featured face bore an air of command, but also a suggestion of fear. Indeed, now that Brunner considered it, he saw the same nervousness on almost all of the other faces he could see, drovers and mercenaries. Apparently the bounty hunter wasn’t the only one who had come upon the massacre site.

  ‘Who are you?’ the plump man demanded. ‘Speak quickly or my men will shoot!’

  ‘Just a traveller,’ Brunner replied, keeping his voice as even and pleasant as he could manage. When he saw the doubtful look on the merchant’s face, Brunner straightened his position in his saddle. He smiled grimly as he noted the three marksmen adjust their aim slightly to account for his movement. ‘You must think I’m a ten-fold fool. I can see that you have me in check. Even if your men there miss me, I know you have another fellow flanking me in the woods just to my right.’ A low curse rose from the bounty hunter’s right. Brunner stared out the corner of his helm to see a wiry man wearing black leather armour come stalking out of the trees, a crossbow gripped in his hands. The look on the sneaking marksman’s sharp-featured face was murderous. He lifted his weapon, keeping it trained on the bounty hunter.

  ‘A traveller, eh?’ the merchant said. ‘And how do we know that’s all you are? How do we know that you’re not in league with the scum that hacked down the caravan we passed this afternoon?’ As the merchant spoke, there were sombre nods from some of his men.

  Brunner was preparing a retort when a voice called out from within the camp.

  ‘He’s what he says he is, Emiliano,’ said a loud voice in a Reiklander accent. Brunner watched the speaker emerge from the cover of the wagons. The man wore an elaborately engraved breastplate over a bright blue shirt. A brace of pistols and a slender longsword dangled from a brass-studded belt about the man’s waist while steel armour covered much of his upper legs. Black leather cavalry boots completed his costume, save for the dull steel helm that guarded his skull. The face of the rounded helm was open, exposing a countenance that had seen too much of the world to still be considered young. The skin was dark and leathery, weathered by years of exposure to the hot sun of the south.

  The man’s blond moustache and keen blue eyes betrayed his northern origin however, every bit as much as the rampant griffon upon his breastplate and the accent in his voice.

  ‘I met him in Miragliano shortly after we arrived,’ the mercenary said, turning away from his employer and walking away from the barricade. ‘Apparently, he is a bounty hunter of some note.’ As the captain made this statement, the marksman in the trees gave a disgusted, hateful hiss. ‘An unpleasant sort, but not a follower of the Ruinous Powers.’

  The mercenary captain strode towards Brunner, stopping when he was only ten feet away. Brunner focused his attention on the man. He remembered only too clearly their last meeting. This time, the man was not drunk, and backed by more than a few besotted companions as he had been in the Black Boar. More, Brunner could see by the way the mercenary carried himself that he was a man who knew his business, who knew how to handle a sword and had depended upon it for his livelihood for quite some time. The bounty hunter considered his options, not liking the conclusions he was drawing. Even if he was able to best the mercenary in a fair combat, he knew that the waiting marksmen would quickly avenge their captain’s loss.

  ‘I see you still carry the sword,’ the mercenary declared, pointing a gloved finger at the dragon-hilted shape against Brunner’s left thigh. The bounty hunter did not speak, fixing his eyes upon those of the sell-sword. The mercenary met Brunner’s gaze. ‘Tell me,’ he asked in a sombre voice, ‘that story you told me about how you came by the sword, was it the truth?’

  Brunner sneered at the mercenary. ‘Lies are what we tell those we fear,’ he said. He cast a furtive glance at the black-garbed marksman as the man moved to complete his flanking of the bounty hunter, then returned his attention to the man before him.

  The mercenary captain was quiet for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded, reaching a decision. He lifted one of his gloved hands, waving his fingers. Ahead of him, Brunner could see the other mercenaries relax, the marksmen withdrawing their weapons. Brunner looked back to the blond-haired captain and nodded. The Reiklander returned the gesture.

  ‘If you would share our camp,’ the mercenary said, ‘I would hear a more complete account of Albrecht Yorck’s demise.’

  ‘That is a small enough thing,’ the bounty hunter replied. ‘But why should it interest you? Of what matter is this sword and a slaughtered pig to you?’

  ‘My father was a soldier in the service of the man to whom that sword rightfully belonged,’ the mercenary said, indicating the dragon-hilted weapon once more. He turned to make his way back to the camp.

  ‘What was his name?’ Brunner called after the mercenary.

  ‘Zelten,’ the mercenary said, turning around once more. ‘Karl Zelten, Rittmeister to the Baron von Drakenburg.’ There was a swelling pride in the mercenary’s voice as he spoke of his father and his position with the deposed baron. ‘I am his eldest son, Manfred Zelten,’ the mercenary concluded with equal pride, turning on his heel and resuming his march back to the encampment.

  The shadows had grown long by the time Brunner had finished relating his story to the mercenary captain. Manfred Zelten had listened with marked interest from the folding camp chair he had removed from one of the wagons. Around him, a number of his sell-swords had gathered, eager to hear this tale which so interested their captain, among them the heavy, bear-like warrior who had risen to the defence of Zelten in the Black Boar and the wiry marksman who had tried to flank the bounty hunter during the earl
ier stand-off.

  The story Brunner told was simple enough. He had been hired by the down-trodden people of Yorckweg, a miserable little town in the Border Princes, to remove their despotic ruler, a usurper named Albrecht Yorck. The bounty hunter had infiltrated the town and found the tyrant, feeding Yorck’s belly the full length of his sword before kicking the expiring man down into his fighting arena to be torn apart by his own wardogs. As a way of supplementing the meagre funds offered by the peasants, Brunner had relieved Yorck of his magnificent sword before knocking him down into the pit to meet a well-deserved end.

  The relating of Yorck’s gruesome demise brought a look of shock and horror to the face of the merchant, Emiliano Tacca, perhaps more due to the cold, emotionless tones in which it was recounted than anything else. Several of the listening mercenaries chuckled however, applauding the ruthless act with their grim humour. Zelten himself wore a broad smile, clearly pleased by what he had heard.

  ‘Nothing less than the swine deserved,’ the Reiklander spat. ‘You did the Empire a service removing that scum from the ranks of the living.’

  ‘I gather you knew this Albrecht Yorck,’ Brunner stated, crouching beside the fire.

  ‘Indeed, he was seneschal to Baron von Drakenburg, second in command of his soldiers, among other duties.’ Zelten’s face grew hard as he recalled the man. ‘It is because of his treachery that my father and many other brave warriors are dead.’

  ‘I suspect that you have your own tale to tell,’ the bounty hunter observed.

  Zelten looked over at the heavily-muscled bear-like man. ‘Horst, ensure that the rotation schedule for the sentries is maintained. Two in camp, one in the trees at either side of the road. I want no tired eyes watching over us when Chaos is abroad.’ The bear-like Horst Brendle nodded, muttering a curse on all those who would bow before the Dark Gods, and strode away to carry out his captain’s orders.

  ‘I fear that my own story has a less pleasing finish than yours,’ Zelten admitted when he returned his attention to the bounty hunter. ‘As I mentioned, my father was captain of cavalry to the Baron von Drakenburg, a noble house whose lands lie upon the Reikland side of the Grey Mountains. He was a very wealthy man, as his domain included Iron Pass, a slender finger through a break in the Grey Mountains which allowed passage between the Empire and Bretonnia. Unfortunately, the Baron’s Bretonnian neighbour was a very ambitious man, a villain named de Chegney, a viscount with less honour and decency about him than an orc.’

  The bounty hunter’s gaze became even harder as he heard the treacherous Bretonnian lord mentioned. ‘Much of the baron’s wealth was poured into building forts and arming soldiers to protect his lands from the viscount’s numerous and unrelenting attempts to expand his domain eastward. It is a testament to the baron’s tactical acumen and the quality of his soldiers that the Viscount de Chegney was repulsed every time, sent back to Bretonnia to lick his wounds.’

  Zelten snapped his fingers and an elderly looking soldier advanced. The old veteran wore a suit of often-mended plate mail about his lean yet-powerful frame, the faded outline of a laurel-wreathed skull visible on his greaves and breastplate. The veteran cast a dubious look at his captain, his wrinkled face further disfigured by a worried scowl. The mercenary handed his captain a lead flask which Zelten took from him without a word. The younger man took a long pull from the bottle, then stared at the flask for a moment before handing it back to the veteran. There was something akin to relief in the older man’s face as he returned the flask to a pouch on his belt and withdrew.

  Fortified by whatever he had imbibed, Zelten continued to speak. ‘For many years this went on, until at last, the viscount himself proposed an end to the fighting. He proposed a treaty with Baron von Drakenburg, a treaty that would be sealed with blood.

  ‘The viscount’s son would marry the baron’s daughter, thus uniting their houses and fortifying the peace with a bond stronger than mere words. After much thought and consultation with his advisors, the baron at last agreed to the marriage and the treaty.’ Brunner listened to Zelten speak, clenching and unclenching his swordhand, as though eager to grip the hilt of his blade. The mercenary did not notice the gesture and continued with his tale. ‘Although no coward, the baron had grown weary of the constant skirmishes and raiding, and this proposed alliance seemed the only chance for bringing peace to his realm. The marriage was announced, to be held on neutral ground, a glade located along Iron Pass, midway between the two realms. The two factions would each bring however many soldiers they desired and the ceremony would be conducted by both a priest of our most Holy Sigmar and a cleric of Bretonnia’s Lady of the Lake.’

  ‘The wedding itself passed without incident. Indeed, even the most sceptical of the baron’s men had to admit that it seemed that at last his troubled realm would know peace. How could they have imagined the black-hearted deceit that was the true intention of the viscount? How could the baron have imagined how deep the Bretonnian’s foul reach had stretched into his own barony? Riding back from the wedding, with his loyal,’ the mercenary fairly sneered the word, ‘seneschal Albrecht Yorck by his side, the baron dared to hope that the security and happiness of his land had been secured, that it would know no more the sound of battle, at least in his time. But the wedding feast had been long, and the hour had grown late. At the suggestion of Yorck, the baron’s party did not head back toward the massive walls of the Schloss von Drakenburg, but instead diverted their path toward a small border fort. It seemed a most reasonable thing to do, with the sun long faded from the sky and many hours’ travel before reaching the warm halls of the Schloss.’

  ‘But it was not comfort the baron found, but darkest treachery. The fort had been betrayed. While the viscount had toasted the peace and prosperity of both their realms, mercenaries in his employ had taken over the fort, sneaking past its defences by means of an escape tunnel whose location had been told to them. They had put the baron’s garrison to the sword, then had awaited the baron’s coming. As the baron’s party reached the keep, the mercenaries sprung their ambush. First they dropped the portcullis, cutting the baron’s forces in half. Then their archers opened fire, both on the men within the keep’s courtyard and those without.

  ‘Surprised, their reflexes and wits dulled by the excesses of the wedding feast, the baron’s company were easy prey. Only three of his horsemen escaped the ambush, riding off to alert the castle and summon aid.’

  ‘One of these men was my father. Mortally wounded by one of the viscount’s archers, he reached the castle nevertheless. He told of the treacherous ambush, and of what he had seen through the keep’s gate ere he had ridden off, the loyal seneschal Albrecht Yorck with his sword at the throat of the man he had professed to serve. He said these things, before his wound finished him, another victim of the viscount’s plotting and Yorck’s betrayal.’

  Zelten clenched his own fist as he recalled these memories and Brunner could imagine the man’s knuckles whitening beneath his gloves. ‘I took up my father’s sword and marched out with the soldiers who had remained at the castle. We thought that if we could reinforce the keep that held the pass, we might yet force the viscount to undo his villainy. But the wily Bretonnian had been swifter. His men had not removed themselves very far from the site of the wedding feast and were much closer to the mouth of the pass than we. Worse, the viscount’s traitor had been at work on the fort’s garrison. Fully half of the men were in his pay, and the faithless curs wasted no time in murdering their still-loyal comrades when Yorck gave the order. We found the pass held against us, and the viscount’s knights ready to take full advantage of a foe tired from having marched since dawn. If ten men escaped the ensuing slaughter, then Morr was cheated his due. It is to my shame that I was among those who did not die that day.’

  ‘The only shame in this world is spending your life on a useless cause,’ the bounty hunter interrupted, his voice chill and grim. ‘You and the other men at the castle should have taken service with one of the
neighbouring barons rather than spending your lives needlessly on a fallen lord.’

  The mercenary captain took to his feet, bristling with outrage. ‘Indeed yours is an honourless breed!’ he snapped. ‘I should have taken service with the likes of them? That princely scum? They were as much traitors to the baron as that vermin Yorck! Each one of them had been bought off by de Chegney, told that they might partition the holdings of the von Drakenburgs in exchange for their complacency. Had they stood against him, the viscount would never have dared to move so boldly and treacherously. Instead, they had stood aside and allowed the viscount to overthrow their fellow noble lord, hiding behind the marriage of de Chegney’s son to the baron’s only child as a moral excuse to not interfere. I’ve served many masters since making my way south, since taking up the profession of the sell-sword, but never have I served men so vile!’

  Brunner smiled at the mercenary. ‘Cling to your high ground while you may,’ he said. ‘Go on thinking there is some honour to be found in this dirty world we live in. You should have learned from the story you’ve told me. Trust is a fatal flaw for a man to have, and loyalty is just as foolish a notion to nurture in your heart. No man, no cause is worth dying for.’ The bounty hunter patted the sword at his side with a leather-covered hand. ‘This is the only friend you can count on.’ He stared hard at the mercenary, his eyes like chips of ice behind the visor of his helm. ‘If your baron had understood that, he wouldn’t be dead now.’ Brunner rose from his crouch and strode away. Zelten and those around him watched the hardened killer walk toward the far end of the encampment, near where his animals were tethered. The bounty hunter removed a blanket from one of the bundles he had earlier taken from the packhorse. Casting the blanket to the ground, the bounty hunter settled himself for the night.

  ‘That sort of man makes even my blood turn sour,’ commented Schtafel, the wiry marksman who had been caught flanking the bounty hunter. He was one of Zelten’s best men, and had been with Zelten throughout the long march south through the Empire. For all of that, he knew little about the man. Whatever secrets were in his past, Schtafel kept to himself. Truth be told, Zelten had been quietly impressed that the bounty hunter had noticed Schtafel’s stealthy approach. He’d seen the crossbowman sneak up on even orcs and beastmen without the monsters noticing.