by C. L. Werner
‘Pistols aren’t going to work,’ a cold voice informed Zelten. The mercenary was somewhat surprised to see Brunner on his feet again.
‘I noticed,’ Zelten snarled, hurling the discharged pistol at the monster’s head and drawing his sword. The Mardagg paid the futile gesture no notice, busy trying to fend off the attacks of the halberdiers. Two of the men were forced to retreat as the daemon’s weapon cut through the wooden shafts of their halberds, their remaining comrades trying to distract the daemon away from their now unarmed fellows.
‘Any ideas?’ Zelten asked the bounty hunter.
‘Maybe,’ Brunner replied, eyes focused intently on the daemon. Was it his imagination, or was the creature slower? Clumsier? He’d never heard of a daemon becoming fatigued, yet this monster, after its brutal march across Remas, was showing signs of tiring. Perhaps they might actually have a chance against it.
The bounty hunter lunged forward, striking at the daemon’s flank. Drakesmalice impacted against the gleaming, screaming skin of the Mardagg, scouring its unnatural flesh. The Mardagg spun about, but too slowly to catch the bounty hunter before he dodged away. Where Drakesmalice had struck it, the oozing flesh had taken on a ridged, dark quality, almost as if the sword had caused the flowing blood to coagulate. Brunner grimly shook his head. The sword had certainly done something to the creature, but perhaps nothing more injurious than a scratch. Slow as it might be, Brunner knew firsthand the awful power within that skeletal frame, and knew that it would take only a slight slip, the merest fraction of slowness on his own part to give the monster another chance at him.
Brunner fell back to where Zelten stood. ‘Well, I guess we now know that it can be hurt,’ he commented between panting breaths. Zelten didn’t respond, instead staring not at the Mardagg but at the glowing blade gripped in Brunner’s hand. A scream of mortal terror brought the mercenary out of his thoughts and back to the situation at hand. One of the soldiers, emboldened by Brunner’s attack, had lunged at the Mardagg, slashing at it with his sword. Unlike Brunner’s blow, however, the sword had failed to injure the monster. Nor had the soldier been quick enough to avoid the Mardaggs return. Pausing for an instant, gaping at the ineffectiveness of his attack, the guard had waited too long to leap away. The Mardaggs scythe ripped through his back, exposing a fist-deep section of his spine.
There was no mistaking the effect the man’s death had upon the daemon. At once its movements began to quicken, the speed of its scythe increase. The Mardagg swept the scythe low, coming in under the guard of the halberdiers, killing one of its opponents, strewing the bleeding halves of the man on the ground before it. A second died as Brunner charged towards it, the man’s body flung across the hall by the immense scythe, smashing into a brazier of coals set against the far wall. The Mardagg turned on its last enemy as the man’s halberd ineffectually hacked into the daemon’s side. The man turned to flee, leaving his halberd still lodged in the Mardagg’s side.
‘It feeds on death and slaughter!’ the bounty hunter shouted to the remaining soldiers. ‘Every man it cuts down makes it stronger!’ Brunner slashed at the daemon’s back once more, Drakesmalice tearing through its glistening flesh. Once again, the skin seemed to harden and took on a darker hue. The Mardagg spun about, and this time Brunner missed the daemon’s retaliation by a hair’s length, the heat of the daemon’s weapon washing over his face as it swept past. ‘Get out of here!’ he shouted to the last soldiers. There was a slim chance if the daemon could be denied its grisly nourishment that it would die. The already terrified men did not need much encouragement, taking to their heels. As they fled Brunner noted that the tapestries and rugs near the brazier overturned by the Mardagg were burning. Brunner could see that if the flames were left unchecked, it would not take long for the entire room to become engulfed in flame.
The Mardagg’s scythe swept forward once more. Again, Brunner barely missed being cut by the deadly blade, jumping back at the last instant. The cold, empty sockets of the Mardagg stared down at him, and Brunner had the unpleasant sensation that the daemon was enjoying their deadly game, like a cat toying with a mouse. Unfortunately, in this game, Brunner had no illusions as to who was the cat.
Brunner started to retreat before the Mardagg, finding that he was being pushed deeper into the chamber by the daemon. He understood its intention now, as the heat and smoke began to grow behind him. Perhaps Drakesmalice had taught the daemon to be a bit more cautious. It was herding him, pushing the bounty hunter toward the flames. Fire might not harm the daemon, but it knew that its adversary could not boast such an immunity.
Suddenly the Mardagg spun around once more, swiping at something behind it. Brunner saw Zelten stabbing at the daemon’s already injured flank. The mercenary intercepted the Mardagg’s descending scythe with his sword. It was an expert parry, one that should have turned even that murderous blade. But the daemon’s weapon was anything but normal. The scythe slashed through Zelten’s sword, and continued on into the man’s side, ripping through his flesh. Entrails erupted from the wound just below Zelten’s ribs and the Reiklander fell in a mass of gore.
Brunner seized the moment it took the Mardagg to recover from its slaughter of his friend. Fuelled by hate and rage, the bounty hunter slashed at the back of the daemon’s skeletal leg, cutting it just behind the knee. The skeletal limb bubbled and steamed where the enchanted sword struck it, cleaving halfway through the monster’s leg. The daemon turned toward Brunner, its skull-like face as emotionless as ever. A wave of blistering heat billowed about Brunner as he firmed his grip upon Drakesmalice. The Mardagg’s empty sockets stared down at him for a moment, as though savouring the man’s hopeless defiance. Then the daemon’s gaze shifted, staring at something beyond the bounty hunter.
For a moment, Brunner considered attacking the daemon as it stalked past him, seemingly oblivious now to his very existence. But he quickly dispelled the thought. Somehow, he had been granted a reprieve. He’d stared at death, and it had let him slip from its fingers. Only a fool would tempt its attention once more. The bounty hunter hurried towards the corridor, away from the intense heat and smoke surging outward from the blazing ruin of Prince Gambini’s throne room. He looked back into the chamber, seeing that much of it was engulfed in crackling, snarling sheets of fire.
At the very centre of the room, through the leaping flames, Brunner could just make out the dais. He was surprised to see that Corvino was seated once more in the throne, having dragged his body back up the steps of the dais. The fool kept one hand around the crossbow bolt protruding from his chest, while pulling his body forward with the other. The madman was holding something that to Brunner’s eyes looked to be a large, skeletal finger. Then a massive shape loomed above the dais. The black cloak about the Mardagg’s shoulders was on fire, flaming scraps of cloth dropping from the burning garment, but the daemon was oblivious. Its skullface glared down at the dying madman, its skeletal hand reaching out toward Corvino.
What more there was to see was obscured by the collapse of the supports for the floor above, fiery timbers and marble blocks raining down into the room. The bounty hunter retreated before the flames, heading back down the hallway. As he did so, he noted a mangled form lying upon the floor. Brunner paused and crouched over the ravaged frame, recognising it as Manfred Zelten. There was still some life in the mercenary and his eyes opened as Brunner knelt over him.
‘Juliana?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper. Dark blood bubbled from his mouth as he spoke.
‘Safe,’ Brunner assured him, seeing the man’s body relax as he heard the news. ‘Prince Gambini got her out.’ The bounty hunter removed his helmet, staring down at the dying man. The roar and crackle of the flames was growing louder, smoke was filling the air, yet Brunner paid them little notice. There was something he had to know.
‘Why didn’t you go with them?’ he asked. For a moment, he thought he had voiced his question to a corpse. Then Zelten’s eyes focused on him once more. A faint smile twisted on the dy
ing man’s face.
‘Dra… mali…’ Zelten coughed. ‘Only one… who can… use it.’ The mercenary’s gaze grew intense. ‘He’s… not… dead…’ The words trailed off into a strangled gargle.
‘No,’ Brunner told the corpse as he stood. ‘No, not dead. The bounty hunter’s gloved hand closed into a fist. ‘Waiting.’
The room was engulfed in flames now, the rear half of the chamber a veritable firestorm as the musty old tapestries burned. The bounty hunter paused in the doorway a moment, staring back into the conflagration. He could not see either the dais or the daemon through the fire and smoke, but just for a moment, he thought he heard a sound rise above the roar of the flames. The sharp, cutting, maniacal laughter of the lunatic Corvino.
Brunner slowly rode out the gates of Remas, his packhorse trailing after him, attached by a rope to Fiend’s saddle. Brunner left behind him a city in turmoil. Hundreds had died in the Mardagg’s brief rampage, and hundreds more had been killed by those the daemon’s madness had infected. In the aftermath of the riots and turmoil of that night, the long-suffering people of Remas had collectively and loudly risen up against the brutal Temple of Solkan, blaming them for not protecting the city from the manifestation of Chaos. It would be some time before the Solkanites regained their hold over the people again, some time before their white-robed militia would be able to walk the streets instilling fear.
The power and prestige of Prince Gambini had been severely crippled. The fire that had started in the throne room had raged out of control for much of the night, devouring the support timbers within the palazzo. As a result, two-thirds of the structure had toppled off the bridge and into the sea. Ambitious political enemies had taken the opportunity to undermine Gambini’s position within the government, placing blame for the unrest on his shoulders. It was doubtful if Gambini would remain a triumvir after the next election, doubtful even if he would still sit on the Council of Fifty.
With the failing fortunes of Prince Umberto Gambini, Princess Juliana Bensario was summoned back to Pavona by her father. Among her entourage, the princess engaged the remains of Manfred Zelten’s mercenary command. Brunner was certain that Schtafel and Meitz would find the smaller, quieter city more to their liking. Horst would probably sign up with the next expedition to reinforce the Border Princes after a few weeks of such surroundings.
The bounty hunter might have ridden with them, to take safety in numbers on his own journey back to Pavona, but he had no stomach for the woman’s company. She had played no small part in the death of Manfred Zelten, it had been to cover her escape that the mercenary had stayed behind to fight the daemon. If not for her, Zelten might yet be alive. Brunner did not number so many among his friends that he could dismiss the death of one lightly And there was another reason the bounty hunter had for wishing to remain alone. He glanced over his shoulder, staring for a moment at the leather bag lashed across Paychest’s back.
The Temple of Morr would be a shunned place for decades, if not centuries. Not lightly would the people of Remas enter its dilapidated walls, recalling all too clearly the frightful abomination that had emerged from within. The place’s dire reputation would grown until every dark imagining of the citizens would come to haunt its abandoned halls. Eventually, perhaps in a few hundred years, some prince would decide to prove to his people that he was above their superstitions and have the ruins razed, but until then, the shadow of the Mardagg would continue to linger on the city.
The bounty hunter, however, was too practical for such imaginings. The daemon had left the structure, and he doubted if, so soon after its dissolution, it would be able to exert any great influence over the place of its summoning. And there had been a chance, albeit however slight, that Brunner might have been wrong in his assumption, that the body of Scurio might yet lie beneath the Slaaneshi cult’s undertemple. It had taken him two hours to find the secret to unlocking the concealed door that led to Corvino’s sanctum. Within, he found a small chamber, the body of Alfredo Gambini lying upon the floor. But he had also discovered something else.
It was a strange and horrible thing, lying just beyond Gambini’s body, draped across the floor like a flat man, thin as parchment, lying on the stones like some flesh-coloured shadow. Brunner stared down at the thing, studying it for a moment before he understood what it was. The flesh-shadow was Scurio’s skin, shed by the daemon like a serpent sloughing its scaly hide. It was split down the centre, almost like a suit of clothing. Brunner turned the macabre skin over with his foot, flipping the light, leathery husk onto its belly. The face below the brim of Brunner’s helm parted in a grim smile. Staring up at him, almost perfect, was the hooded asp tattoo.
The bounty hunter had lost no time, rolling up the morbid skin like a blanket and stuffing it into a leather sack. Masario had wanted proof that the murderer was dead, had wanted the tell-tale mark of the killer brought to him. Brunner only hoped that whatever spell his wizard employed to verify that Scurio had been the killer didn’t draw the attention of that which had consumed the murderer’s body.
Masario’s gold would go far to lightening the heavy spirits that had settled upon Brunner. The bounty hunter caressed the hilt of Drakesmalice. Too many reminders of the past had beset him during this hunt, too many old wounds had opened up again. Manfred Zelten had reminded him of much that he had put aside.
Brunner considered the young mercenary captain for a moment. There were too many men like Zelten and his father whose lives had been destroyed through treachery. Perhaps the time was coming for them to be avenged. Yes, perhaps Brunner would leave the squabbling politics of Tilea behind him for awhile, and ply his trade in the Empire or Bretonnia for a time…
The bounty hunter was lost in thoughts of faraway places and long ago times as he rode out the great gates of Remas. He did not notice the scraggly old beggar with the long white beard who watched him depart. Had he done so, he would have been surprised to recognise the same mendicant who had cast bones to tell his fortune in the streets of Pavona.
The old beggar cackled to himself as he watched the bounty hunter ride away. The hired killer had been a useful pawn, just as his foundling apprentice Corvino had been. It was always wise to get someone else to cast the most dangerous spells. One did not last long in the service of the wily Changer of Ways without learning never to put one’s own neck on the chopping block. The spell to free the Mardagg was almost certainly lethal to the one who invoked it; removing its spirit from its human host was an even more certain form of death. Fortunately, Corvino had thought he would be able to control the daemon. If he had only paid attention, perhaps the little fool might have seen how he was being used, that his ambitions were nothing to the Dark Gods. All his schemes had been used solely to return one of Khorne’s prized servants to the Realm of Chaos, nothing more. Poor Corvino, he had never understood that no man uses Chaos; it uses him.
The sorcerer looked again at the diminishing figure of the bounty hunter. He hoped that the man would fare well wherever his trail led him.
‘The Ruinous Powers,’ he prophesised, ‘may yet have a use for you.’
BLOOD OF THE DRAGON
CHAPTER ONE
It had been nearly a year since the affair of the Black Prince and my parting with the bounty hunter, so it had been quite unexpected when I had encountered him, his raiment caked in the mud and dust of travel, armour sporting the beginnings of rust not uncommon among warriors on the march, making his way along the narrow winding streets of Parravon. Yet, somehow, though unexpected, it had not been surprising to see Brunner again. And despite the events that caused me to forsake the Tilean city of Miragliano for the quiet Bretonnian township of Parravon, despite the treachery and ruthlessness that permeated Brunner’s hunt for the Black Prince, despite even the violent and menacing aura that surrounded the man himself, I found that I was quite pleased to see my old collaborator again.
My name is Ehrhard Stoecker, originally of Altdorf until events surrounding my notorious history de
tailing the infamous vampire count Vlad von Carstein made it prudent for me to emigrate from the lands of my birth. However, even in exile, I found it impossible to keep my mind idle and my pen from parchment. In Miragliano, I began recording the exploits of the adventurers I would come upon in that city’s many taverns and wine shops and none of those exploits had been so bloody or so fascinating as the career of the bounty killer Brunner. Now, forced by the requirements of an empty belly to pen the atrociously bloated and self-aggrandising family history of the Duc of Parravon, I found myself drawn more than ever to the violent, often horrific journeys of Brunner. It was with great enthusiasm that I invited my old confederate to join me at the inn where I had made my abode, eager to learn more of his travels and the dark deeds that accompanied them.
Brunner spent some time regaling me with tales of his time among the Tilean city states following my abrupt and hasty retreat from Miragliano. I heard many things that disquieted me and made me ever more pleased that I had forsaken the south for the safety of Bretonnia and the protection of its valiant knights. The bounty hunter told me of the horrors that lurked beneath the slopes of the Vaults, the unclean vermin who now claimed the halls of the old dwarf lords of Karag-dar. He told me of dead things that stalked the nighted streets of Miragliano itself, and I shivered as I recalled the experience that had made me flee Altdorf so long ago. He told me too of the corruption that was rife throughout the Tilean countryside, of dread emissaries from the realms of the Dark Gods and the zealous madmen who opposed them, the infamous Inquisition of Solkan. I hastened to record every detail of Brunner’s accounts, my pen darting across each page as the bounty hunter piled horror atop horror. When he had finished, Brunner leaned back in his chair, sipping at a tankard of mead, watching me as I hurriedly completed my notes.