Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  ‘Indeed,’ commented the inquisitor. ‘And how reliable should I hold your information?’

  ‘There is to be some manner of profane ceremony soon. This much I have learned. Perhaps in only a few days. I could follow Alfredo, discover where his filthy coven is to hold their ceremony. Then you would be able to arrest them all!’

  Inquisitor Bocca was silent as he considered the possibility. To capture Alfredo Gambini, cousin to the most powerful merchant prince in the city, in the midst of some ritual to the Ruinous Powers! Such an event would shake the very structure of the city. The temple would be able to prove its suspicions that corruption had wormed its way into the houses of the rich and the powerful. It would be able to insist that the families of the council submit themselves to the investigations of the inquisition of Solkan. No longer would the decadent nobility be above the justice of Solkan. The filthy waterfront district could be razed, its thieves, drunkards and whores put to the torch. Bocca looked aside, glancing at the centre chair upon the dais. The man who brought about such things would be great in the eyes of Mighty Solkan, he might even aspire to inheriting the position of grand inquisitor when the time came.

  Bocca leaned forward, his armoured finger stabbing at the informer below. ‘Return to the palazzo then. Keep your eyes and ears open. If this is true, if we discover that Alfredo Gambini is indeed a worshipper of the Dark Gods, you will be richly rewarded.’ The inquisitor’s voice slipped into a rumbling growl. ‘But if you lie to me, I shall take great pleasure in making you confess your falsehoods!’

  VII

  The Red Horse was swarming with patrons as the sun sank into the sea. Many were merchants and shop keepers relieving throats dried out by the day’s haggling and cheating. Others were sailors and dockhands, simply trying to drown their bodies in enough drink to make them forget their tired muscles and fatigued frames. A few were none of these things, however. They were of an even harder stock, flint-eyed men who wore armour and weapons, the worn condition of their equipment letting all in the tavern know that they had had cause before to use them, and had been skilled enough to walk away afterwards. These were the mercenaries, drinking their wages as often as their masters would let them slip their leash. One such group of six hardened sell-swords had taken over one of the large round tables that cluttered the main floor of the tavern.

  Manfred Zelten stood amidst his men, saluting each in turn with his beer stein. The old veteran Meitz nodded his head and returned the captain’s salute. The wiry marksman Schtafel smiled and made a show of tossing the stein from one hand to the other without spilling a drop of its nearly overflowing contents. The tracker Guglielmo, having no taste for the drink of his cohorts from the Empire, had to employ the clay cup he was drinking dark Reman wine from to return Zelten’s salute. The thick-bearded Horst Brendle managed a semi-articulate grunt from behind his stein as he guzzled down its contents.

  ‘And let us not forget our friend,’ Zelten said, turning to regard Brunner. The bounty hunter sat beside the mercenary captain, quietly nursing an expensive glass of imported schnapps from Marienburg. ‘Even if he should be back at the palazzo resting his wounds.’ There was more than a suggestion of reproach in the look Zelten gave Brunner.

  ‘I’ve suffered worse,’ Brunner stated. The truth of it was that his old injury was still stinging his shoulder, reopened by the daemon-creature’s powerful assault, but the bounty hunter was not one to let a little thing like injury interfere with his hunt. There was also a nagging sense of danger tugging at the back of Brunner’s mind. He wasn’t entirely certain what it might portend, but he did know that if it heralded another attack such as he had faced the night before, he would prefer not to meet it alone.

  As if sensing the bounty hunter’s thoughts, Guglielmo spoke. ‘You shouldna let old Horst sleep himself off in the Pink Rose. He would be good fellow to have with you with a monster at your throat.’ Horst grunted his assent through the foam of his fifth tankard of the night.

  ‘I’ve already heard,’ Brunner commented. ‘He’s worth any five men.’

  ‘He certainly can drink like any five,’ laughed Zelten.

  ‘And eat like five,’ complained Mietz, rolling his eyes.

  ‘And wench like five,’ chimed in Schtafel, his voice bubbling with amusement. He looked over at the bear-like man. ‘Horst ever tell you he was the best pit fighter in Middenheim?’ the crossbowman asked, redirecting his gaze at Brunner’s helmet-shrouded face. ‘Oh yes, he was renowned in all the big fighting arenas. He used to draw more people into the Baiting Pit than it could hold. There was a saying on the streets of the city that Horst Brendle had killed more men in Middenheim than the red pox.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Brunner asked, sensing that Schtafel would go on and on extolling the exploits of his comrade until dawn if left on his own.

  ‘Ah, that is a story in itself,’ the wiry marksman laughed. Horst shot a sullen, warning look over at Schtafel, but the man continued to speak anyway. ‘One day, Horst is walking down the street and he comes across a preacher, a missionary of Sigmar! In the bastion of Ulric no less! Anyway, Horst is attracted by the mob shouting down the preacher, tossing stones and vegetables at him. Just as he is about to join in however, Horst starts listening to the priest and his words start making sense to him. The preacher is talking about how the people of Middenheim must repent their ways, must cease putting the White Wolf ahead of Most Holy Sigmar. He says that the Day of Doom is soon, and that the people must scour themselves, that through their pain they might atone for their heathen ways and spare their souls being devoured by the Dark Gods when they consume the world.’ Schtafel nodded his head toward Horst and grinned. ‘This idiot bought the whole rigmarole, gave away all his belongings and put on a sack cloth robe, joining the mob of flagellants trailing this preacher across half the Empire.’

  ‘He was a crackpot, a deluded madman profaning Sigmar’s holy name!’ growled Horst, slamming his stein against the table.

  ‘I was getting to that,’ grinned Schtafel. ‘So, Horst here follows this lunatic to every pigsty and peasant shack between the Middle Mountains and Mootland for five years. Five years, living on unleavened bread, water and boiled cabbage! No drink, no meat, and no women!’

  ‘That’s why he indulges himself so much now,’ commented Guglielmo. ‘He’s making up for lost time!’

  ‘Anyway,’ Schtafel continued, ignoring the Tilean’s interruption, ‘after five years of this, Horst suddenly realises that the world still hasn’t come to an end. The Dark Gods haven’t eaten the sun, the rocks haven’t started to bleed, orcs aren’t singing in Altdorf opera houses, in short, there is nothing to indicate that everything this nutjob has been prophesying is coming to pass.’

  ‘So I strangled him in the middle of another of his heretical prophecies,’ Horst finished the story, his voice cold and murderous. ‘The others he had deceived didn’t understand what I had done, so I was forced to defend myself against them.’

  ‘His wits might have been a bit addled after five years of living as a crazed wandering mendicant, but Horst still had sense enough to put as much distance as he could between himself and twenty corpses rotting beside the Talabheim-Altdorf road.’ Schtafel added, draining his own stein. The other mercenaries muttered their own grim chuckles at the recounting of the impressive, if murderous, feat.

  Brunner did not share in the merriment of his companions. While Schtafel had been speaking, he had been watching a lean man wearing a leather tunic and an expensive-looking ruffled hat talking to a large, scar-faced warrior with the weathered look of an Estalian about him. The bounty hunter had caught the man in the hat looking over at their table several times over the course of the night. In turn, he had kept an eye on the furtive character. Now he saw the man turn away from the Estalian. The soldier moved toward another table, speaking with a number of armed men sitting there. Brunner watched as the men rose.

  ‘Trouble,’ he warned his comrades from the corner of his mouth. At o
nce, the laughter and conversation died. Each of the mercenaries stared at the bounty hunter.

  ‘Where?’ asked Zelten.

  ‘Ten men, heading our way,’ Brunner answered, not moving. ‘There’s an ugly-looking rogue wearing an Estalian helmet and breastplate at their head.’ The mercenaries looked away, easily spotting the warriors making a path through the crowded tavern. Brunner turned his head and stared at Schtafel.

  ‘These men were paid,’ the bounty hunter said. ‘There’s a man in a ruffled black hat standing beside the bar.’ Schtafel nodded as he spotted the man Brunner indicated. ‘Whatever else happens, don’t let him get away.’ Once again, Schtafel nodded his understanding.

  The warriors had closed almost to Zelten’s table now. The crowd had drawn away from the warriors, as if sensing the coming violence, allowing the hired killers to advance more quickly. Other patrons drew away from the proximity of Zelten’s table, clearing some room for the coming violence to unfold. Closer now, it was obviously apparent that, like Zelten’s crew, these men were mercenaries, displaying a motley collection of races and nations between them.

  One by one, Zelten and his men drew their swords, Horst producing the massive chain flail he had employed in the battle with the plague warriors. Brunner rose slowly, dragging Drakesmalice from its sheath. The metal was cold and lustreless, which the bounty hunter took as a good sign. At least these were foes unmarked by the Chaos powers. In his other hand, Brunner held his pistol, drawing concerned looks from the rival mercenaries. At this range, the bounty hunters bullet could not help but hit a target.

  For several minutes, the two groups stood, glowering at one another in silence. Then a hulking, swarthy man with the bristly moustache and beard of an Arabyan fixed his glaring gaze on Zelten. ‘Sigmar was a drinker of his own piss,’ the Arabyan spat.

  With a roar of maniacal fury, Horst upended the table, hurling it at the rival mercenaries. So sudden and intense was the bearded man’s rage that even the goading Arabyan was taken by surprise as Horst exploded into violence. The table smashed against the foremost of the warriors, smashing two of them to the floor. Even as the table was coming to rest, Horst was lunging on top of it, swinging his flail in a brutal arc that crushed a slow-moving swordsman’s jaw, showering the man beside him with blood and teeth.

  Brunner fired his pistol as Horst leapt forward, the shot ripping through the throat of a pale-eyed Tilean bearing a cutlass and a duellist’s dagger. The man collapsed into the arms of his nearest comrade, leaving the man exposed to Zelten’s blade. The Reiklander stabbed past the body of the man Brunner had shot, puncturing the other mercenary’s lung. Guglielmo and Meitz moved forward to support their commander, trading sword strokes with a pair of flint-eyed Tileans. In only a few short, vicious moments, the attackers had lost their numerical advantage. That knowledge did not rest easy on their minds, and they fought defensively, with one eye peeled for any chance of escape.

  The patrons of the Red Horse were no strangers to violence, many of them practiced mercenaries themselves. Immediately wagers began to sound from several quarters, even as swords, axes and virtually any other weapon conceived by man found their way into callused hands, in the event that the combat were to expand beyond the space the onlookers had allowed it. Behind the bar, the scarred proprietor studied the tide of battle, trying to determine if the potential for damage to his establishment would outweigh the value of whatever loot could be plundered from the bodies of the losers. A handful of more timid patrons trickled out onto the street, suddenly deciding that perhaps it was time to retire for the evening.

  Brunner found himself matched with a leather-faced man who looked to be at least partially Estalian, reluctantly conceding that the man was indeed quite capable with the large, notched sword he wielded. The bounty hunter caught a motion out of the corner of his eye and decided that he had no time to play with the swordsman. Brunner let his opponent crush Drakesmalice downward, seeking to trap the blade against the floor. As he did so, the mercenary left himself exposed to Brunner’s left hand. The man sneered as he saw the bounty hunter swing his seemingly empty hand, more than willing to trade a punch for the chance to disarm his enemy. But as Brunner swung, he depressed the catch on the spring mechanism concealed beneath his tunic. The short, sharp blade he had claimed from the body of the kidnapper Ursio shot from underneath Brunner’s sleeve and into his hand, and from there into the soft jelly of the mercenary’s eye.

  Brunner turned away from his dying enemy and looked for Zelten. He saw the Reiklander fighting a fair-faced man with the look of Marienburg about his clothes and armour. The two swordsmen were fairly evenly matched, though Brunner could see that the Marienburger was tiring far more quickly than Zelten, putting too much of himself in each strike. A mistake of inexperience rather than skill. Then Brunner saw the swarthy figure closing on Zelten from behind and realised that perhaps the Marienburger had no need of conserving his strength. The Estalian drew his arm back for a stabbing blow to Zelten’s kidneys. The first Zelten knew of the man’s presence was when he screamed, one of Brunner’s throwing knives piercing his neck.

  The death of their captain decided the fight. The remaining members of his mob hastily removed themselves from their adversaries, turning and fleeing out of the tavern’s side door. As they left, Brunner took stock of their situation. Mietz was being helped into a chair by Guglielmo, one of the old veteran’s arms covered in bright blood. Horst was crouched over the Arabyan, smashing the man’s face into the floor and snarling into his ruined features to recant his blasphemy before slamming his head once more into the floor.

  Zelten wiped the blood from his sword with a rag torn from the sash about the dead Estalian’s waist. The captain looked about the carnage.

  ‘Schtafel?’ he asked. Brunner nodded to a man quickly making his way through the spectators.

  ‘Did you get him?’ Brunner asked when Schtafel emerged from the crowd. The wiry man nodded.

  ‘He made it to the street, but he won’t get far,’ the marksman reported, sheathing his dagger.

  Brunner turned toward Zelten. ‘I doubt if our friend with the hat was the mastermind of this attack,’ he said. ‘You can be sure that whoever wants you dead will try again.’

  Zelten looked over the dead and dying men strewn about them.

  ‘Let us hope then that we fare as well next time.’

  The dying man stared up into the pale face of the man who stood over him. He reached toward the stranger, but his hand was bloody and the man standing above him drew away, not desiring to stain his long black cloak. The wounded man gurgled a supplication to the black-cloaked figure, but his plea fell on deaf ears. The stranger in the black cloak strode away even as the man with the ruffled hat bled out into the gutter.

  He had recognised the dying man, had seen him several times before in the Gambini palazzo. He was General Mandalari’s valet. Briefly the black-cloaked man wondered how the valet had come to meet such a dismal end, then he saw the band of warriors emerging from the Red Horse. They were helping a wounded man into the street. The observer at once recognised Manfred Zelten. That answered his question, then. Clearly Mandalari was moving ahead with his plans. The man in the black cloak considered the fact for a moment then sighed.

  He had other friends to help this night. The general would have to wait. The man in the black cloak was careful to walk in the opposite direction to that taken by Zelten and his men. It did not matter, really, there were harlots to be had on any street near the waterfront, and he had yet to meet one that did not become agreeable at the sight of gold.

  Not that the woman he engaged this night would ever be spending whatever she was given.

  VIII

  The man in black released his hold on the harlot’s hand. He reached forward and opened the door that stood before them. By secret paths and hidden doors had he brought the woman here, deep within the Gambini palazzo. No one had remarked their coming.

  ‘In there,’ the man said, noting
the girl’s hesitancy. ‘Do not worry, my master will pay you very well, even if the room is dark.’ The mention of money seemed to dispel much of the girl’s fear. Firming herself, she stepped into the darkened room. No sooner had she crossed the threshold, than the man in the black cloak slammed the door shut. The woman turned, rushing at the door, beating on it with her fists. Outside, in the hall, the dark man held the portal closed, his ear pressed to the panels. He did not want to miss the sound of what would soon transpire.

  The harlot beat on the door, trying to escape the trap she had been led into. But it was already too late. There would be no escape. Powerful hands closed about her waist, pulling her away from the door. She screamed, but the sound did not penetrate the thick stone walls of the room. Savagely, she was thrown to the floor. The woman rolled onto her side, slightly dazed from having struck her head against the unyielding floor. Then she felt the deep gash in her side, where the hands had clutched at her, felt the warm blood seeping through her fingers and she screamed again.

  In the darkness, her attacker licked the blood from his knife. The taste washed away the torment racing through his body, stilling the skin on his back as it tried to tear itself free from his body. He knew that he would need more, much more to satisfy the agony, to spare him its attentions for a few more days. But there was more blood in the woman, much more. And he would spill every drop.

  Outside, the man in dark clothes listened to the sounds of butchery within the room. His friend was indeed insatiable tonight. It would take quite a bit of effort to clean up after him this time. It was just as well that the usefulness of his friend was almost at its end, there were only so many times they could get away with these offerings to the evil within him. With every taste of blood, the darkness grew still stronger within his friend’s soul. Much longer, and it would manifest itself of its own accord. And that would not do anybody any good, least of all himself.