Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  Gobineau shook his head in disgust as a cockroach large enough to give a housecat a decent fight sloshed its way through the mud and scurried under a gap in the nearest wall. A sigh worked its way from the rogue’s chest as he considered the misery of his surroundings. Only two months ago he had been sleeping on sheets of Cathayan silk and dining upon roast pheasant and duck. Of course, his very eager and accommodating hostess did have that slight marital problem, as in the noble lord’s five-month quest to root out a nest of beastmen in the Forest of Chalons had only taken three. Of course, the stunned look on the knight’s face had almost been worth a cold flight through the nighted streets of Couronne, though Gobineau did regret leaving such a fine pair of boots behind.

  Thoughts of finery caused the rogue to remove the ivory reliquary that he had tucked within his tunic. He studied the artefact that had so impressed the wizard, impressed him enough to try killing Gobineau and his entire bandit gang. With a twist of his wrist, Gobineau slid the upper portion away, exposing the item Rudol had called the Fell Fang, though Gobineau did not like to ponder the size of a creature that could have fitted something of such size within its jaws.

  There was no mistaking the quality of the artefact, its graceful, peerless craftsmanship. And, if Rudol was to be believed, there was something magical about the device. That would make it especially valuable where he was going. Duc Marimund had been a sometime patron of Gobineau’s when the rogue had operated in the southern half of the kingdom. Mousillon was a prime base of operations, if one had a constitution bold enough to resist the pestilent air that clung to the blighted city, and didn’t mind leaving the hours of darkness to the unspeakable things that emptied from the city’s graveyard at dusk. There were few knights in Bretonnia who would brave the cursed city, seeing it as a place of ill omen and sacrilege. That was very helpful when trying to escape a particularly determined baronet or marquis’s warriors.

  The duc was also obsessed with all things magic, hoping to achieve his mad dreams of restoring the glory days of his rotting city through sorcery and the black arts. He’d be quite interested in what Gobineau had to show him. And, of course, while Marimund was occupied with his new toy, his pretty young wife might be interested in a few hours’ dalliance with her old paramour. Gobineau smiled again at that thought. His mind half-taken with amorous deeds, he eyed the fang once more, again noting the irregular holes that seemed to have been drilled into its surface. The rogue lifted the relic to his lips, blowing through the silver cap into the hollow fang, intending to evoke one of the many haunting melodies he had collected in his travels and which he employed to help melt even the coldest maiden’s heart.

  The rogue looked in annoyance at the fang when no sound issued from it. He drew a deeper breath, blowing into it once more, then chided himself for his foolishness. It was some hoary old elf sorcerer’s talisman, not a minstrel’s flute. Laughing at his flight of fancy, Gobineau slipped the curve of bone back into its ivory case, admiring the carvings once more before again concealing it within the folds of his tunic.

  He’d need to set aside his thought of romantic trysts and glittering gold. It was more important that he watch himself on the road to the cursed city, especially now that he was only a day’s journey from the safety of Mousillon’s walls. He’d make an early start on the morrow, and be in Mousillon long before nightfall. It wouldn’t pay for some knight to chance upon him now that he was so close.

  Of course, there was another thought that lent speed to Gobineau’s intentions. He’d ridden two horses into the ground, abandoning the dying steeds and stealing replacements, during his flight from Valbonnec, yet Gobineau was not so certain that he had eluded all pursuit. The bounty hunter Brunner was notorious for his tenacity, and infamous for his brutality when he brought his hunts to a close. The thought that the bounty killer, despite all of Gobineau’s craft and care, might be close at hand chilled the rogue far more than the draught seeping in under the ox-skins.

  The rogue lifted the watery mead that Gaspard had given him to chase down his dinner of lukewarm porridge. He’d be safe enough once he was in Mousillon, the rogue told himself as he tried to strengthen his nerves with what little fire was in his drink. Even a fanatic like Brunner wouldn’t follow him there.

  The castle’s great hall was all but deserted, the sycophants of the court dismissed by a snarled command from their lord. A number of servants had remained, cringing in the background like badly whipped curs who knew not from which direction their master might kick them next. A second, even more murderous oath from the lord of the castle sent even these wretches scuttling off through the stone archways that opened into the hall. In their wake, the crackle of the fire was the only sound that intruded upon the silence.

  In the centre of the chamber, where a vast array of benches and tables had been assembled for the recently interrupted feast, a highbacked throne stood, its occupant glowering at the two men standing before him. He was a cruel-featured man, his nose broad, his mouth a thick gash above his slight chin. His body was not one of height, but one of strength, limbs rippling with muscle, raw brute power visible even beneath the silky blue robes the nobleman wore. His neck was thick, like the stump of a tree, and about it hung a massive golden chain and pectoral. Upon the pectoral was a slavering wolf, the coat of arms of the Viscount de Chegney, a man as notorious for his tyranny as he was for his ruthlessness.

  Augustine de Chegney leaned forward in his chair, fixing his intense, smouldering gaze upon his seneschal.

  ‘Your story intrigues me, Pleasant,’ the nobleman growled. ‘Now that we are alone, I would hear more of the particulars.’ There was an unspoken threat in the viscount’s words, a promise that if the rest of the report was not as promising as the seneschal’s intimations had been, then the viscount’s underling would pay a stiff penalty for presuming upon his master’s ambitions.

  The man addressed was a tall, lean figure, wearing a long brown cloak over his red tunic and breeches. His features were sharp, almost bird-like, his head bald except for the fringe of white hair that persisted behind his ears and the faint wisp of moustache that hid beneath the shadow of his nose. Elodore Pleasant lifted a hand heavy with gold rings and pulled at his chin. He smiled nervously, then continued to make his report.

  ‘This man,’ Elodore pointed behind him at the dark-garbed stranger who had come to the chateau seeking an audience with the viscount, ‘is the wizard of whom I spoke.’

  ‘I have eyes, fool,’ the viscount snarled, ‘and the wit to use them.’ De Chegney turned his attention away from his underling and stared at the man who had accompanied him. The wizard was not so thin and frail as the seneschal, though far from powerfully built. He wore a robe of black upon which tiny stars seemed to blink and flicker with the wizard’s every movement. The fiery, intense eyes of the mage did not waver as the feral glare of the nobleman peered into them.

  ‘This weapon you have told Pleasant about,’ the viscount said. ‘It will do what you have said it can do?’

  ‘The true level of its power may be far beyond even what I have described,’ Rudol boasted, his voice rippling with excitement. ‘With such a weapon at your command, no enemy could hope to stand against you!’

  ‘My enemies do not dare to stand against me now, conjurer,’ de Chegney declared. ‘I have the finest army in the Grey Mountains, and my enemies know it.’

  ‘But if your enemies should band together…’ Rudol explained. ‘There is always that threat, is there not? That you might become problem enough that even the least amiable of your adversaries might find common cause in working your ruin?’

  ‘And there is the simple truth that we cannot easily both defend ourselves and mount a decisive strike on le Gaires,’ interjected Pleasant. ‘The wizard’s plan offers us a way to achieve both.’ De Chegney waved a meaty hand indicating that his servant should curb his enthusiasm.

  ‘This talisman you speak of,’ the nobleman asked. ‘It will truly enable you to control dragons?�
��

  Rudol’s eyes gleamed with an even more fanatic intensity as he responded to the viscount’s question. ‘It is a device worked by the elves long ago. Mortal wizards have never dared imagine such a device! With the Fell Fang, I can call the dragon which was bound to the talisman and bind him to my will! I can command him to destroy whomever you command. You can annihilate your enemies from afar, keeping your army intact and be ready to deal with anyone foolish enough to oppose you after you display your power!’

  ‘What is in this for you?’ de Chegney inquired, trying not to let himself become distracted by the fantastic prospect Rudol had laid before him.

  ‘I am but a wizard,’ the exile said, bowing humbly before the seated noble. ‘I am no ruler, I can prosper only by serving a man who is firmly in command of the mundane matters of a mundane world, freeing me to pursue my researches into the mysteries of the arcane world. If I do this for you, I would expect your protection and patronage in exchange for my services.’ A crafty quality entered Rudol’s features and the smile he turned upon de Chegney was one of smugness. ‘I should point out that it takes one well versed in the black arts to employ the Fell Fang, to rouse the dragon from its slumber. It is no dog whistle that any idiot can put to his lips!’ The wizard nodded his head. ‘We need each other, viscount. Neither of us can achieve his ambitions without the other.’

  De Chegney leaned back in his chair. ‘You have asked for protection as you secure this talisman from the man who has it.’ The nobleman paused as he considered the request. ‘I shall put twenty men at your disposal. One of my knights shall accompany them.’ The viscount’s tone became lower, more threatening. ‘Sir Thierswind will be in command of the soldiers. You may voice suggestions to him, but make no mistake that he is in command of this little expedition.’ The viscount lifted a warning finger. ‘Be advised, Rudol, if Sir Thierswind once suspects that you intend to betray me, I have given him my blessing to remove your head from its shoulders and bring both it and the talisman back to me.’ The viscount snorted with grim humour.

  ‘After all,’ he laughed, ‘I can always find another wizard.’

  La Isla de Sangre was a barren scrap of volcanic rock jutting out of the ocean some two hundred miles off the coast of Estalia. It was an ill-regarded place, shunned by man and beast alike. The rocky slopes were devoid of all but the hardiest of mosses and weeds, their scraggly, skeletal stalks clothing the parched and stony earth. Except for the grotesque crabs that nightly crawled out of the muck and filth of the island’s lagoon to prowl and hunt, the place was almost devoid of animal life. A few petrels and razorbills contested lordship of the island with the crabs, when the north was gripped by the frosty attentions of Ulric, Lord of Winter, their croaking cries audible for leagues out to sea.

  Even pirates had forsaken La Isla de Sangre as a place from which to mount their raids and hide their treasure. Perhaps it was the blood-red sand of the beach, which had lent the island its name, that so disconcerted them. Perhaps it was the towering volcano that loomed above the island, an omnipresent spectre of impending doom as it smoked and rumbled. Or perhaps it was legend, the old stories that said the island had once been a lush paradise, home to a great and noble race of people. The tales went that the island had been turned into a barren wilderness after a single night of destruction and carnage, when a horrific force had descended upon the island and consumed all upon it. The legends did not agree upon what shape the destroyer had taken; some spoke of an angry god that dwelt within the mountain, others of a towering daemon who wore a crown of flame, still others of a rain of firebolts that had showered down from the sky to burn the island clean of life.

  In primitive times, the crude ancestors of the Estalians had paddled their rafts to the island once a year to leave an offering upon its shore, hoping to placate the angry god of the mountain with their sacrifice. Even in more recent times, Estalian sailors would throw a small animal overboard when they passed within sight of the island. It was never wise to tempt daemons from their slumber.

  Within the sulphurous depths of the gigantic network of lava tubes that snaked their way through the mountain, a vast form stirred upon its bed of glittering metal. Claws of polished black scratched at the golden coins that supported them, causing them to slide in an avalanche of wealth. A long tail lashed against the wall, knocking stones from the ceiling overhead. The rocks crumbled and broke upon the massive armoured back beneath them. Leathery lids rolled back to expose cold amber eyes, their slit-like pupil narrowing and widening as it roused itself from centuries of slumber.

  A low hiss, like the sizzle of a thousand forges, rasped from the creature’s immense form. Fully emerged from its interrupted slumber, the reptile’s mind at once focused upon what had disturbed it. An ancient insult had been repeated, the stabbing, probing pain had lanced once more through its mind. The cold mind of the reptile suddenly blazed with a rage as fiery as the molten rock that surged in the caldera that warmed its lair.

  Powerful limbs clawed at the heaped treasure that formed the wyrm’s nest, pulling the mammoth shape through the lava tubes. A low rumble pounded from the reptile’s body as its breathing increased, as strength began to surge once more through its gargantuan frame. A long, purplish tongue shot out from the colossal jaws that fronted the monster’s wedge-like head, flickering as it tasted the air. The monster hissed again, crawling toward the faint suggestion of fresh air it had detected. The wyrm’s colossal bulk widened the narrow lava tubes, grinding stone from the smooth walls with its passing. At last, it neared its goal. The tremendous speed of the reptile lessened as it neared the fresh air, and it was with a suggestion of caution that the monster approached the mouth of the tunnel.

  Like a gigantic serpent, the dragon crawled from the mouth of the lava tube, sending a rockslide tumbling down the mountain as he wriggled his body to widen the hole. The enormous horned head looked skyward, staring with cool alien interest at the stars he had not seen for five hundred years and more. The weird light of the twin moons lent a colder hue to the reptile’s crimson scales and black talons, but did nothing to ease the wrath boiling within the creature. The dragon freed his shoulders, twisting his body and sinking his halberd-like claws into the side of the volcano. With a speed that seemed beyond something of such a mammoth construction, the dragon crawled from the mouth of his lava tunnel up the sheer face of the mountain, stopping only when he reached the truncated peak of the volcano.

  The dragon stared down at his desolate island, his predatory gaze considering the jagged rocks and scarlet sands. The dragon’s eyes dismissed the scuttling shapes of the crabs, lifting to watch the placid surface of the wide ocean. There would be porpoises and whales there, meat enough to fill even the fiery belly of the ancient wyrm. A trickle of sizzling drool fell from the dragon’s mouth as he contemplated such a feast. Then the monster’s eyes narrowed as his mind returned to that which had disturbed him. As intense as the hunger chewing at his innards was, there was a still greater force motivating the mammoth reptile.

  Leathery wings slowly folded open from above the dragon’s shoulders. The pinions, as black as night and larger than a galleon’s mainsail, fluttered up and down as the dragon tested them in the warm wind rising from the volcano. With a snap, the wings opened fully and the dragon let a mighty roar rasp from his powerful lungs, golden flames billowing from his jaws. Without further preamble, the two hundred foot-long monster launched himself from the side of the mountain, powerful wings keeping the giant reptile aloft.

  Malok circled the island twice, then banked, speeding away in a new direction. What he wanted to find was not on La Isla de Sangre. No, it would be found somewhere else, somewhere in the north. Malok did not know where he might find it now, but he knew where it had been.

  For now, that would be enough. If it was not there, then the dragon would simply extend his hunt. When enough of the land was cinder and ash, there would be no place for the little vermin to hide.

  CHAPTER FOUR


  It lay strewn upon the banks of the River Grismerie like the festering carcass of some colossal sea beast dredged up from the pits of the ocean to die upon the shore. The once gleaming walls of the city were now broken, charred black in places by fires that had raged unchecked, or had toppled when the foundations had been devoured by the boggy landscape. Smaller structures lay crushed beneath those tumbled-down walls, the immense stone blocks driving the shops and hovels that had clustered in their shadow deep into the mire so that only the occasional wooden strut or shingle protruded from the quagmire. The rotting remains of towers could be seen beyond the wall, the forlorn remnants of once proud castles from which the descendants of Lord Landuin had once ruled. To the north and the west of the city, great cemeteries sprawled, vast mausoleums and tombs meant to endure through the ages, now crumbled and cracked by the twin evils of flood and earthquake, and by the neglect that had afflicted all of Mousillon.

  Beyond the walls of the dead city, all was foul stinking marshland, a filthy bog of mud and mire formed by the rivers frequent floods. The giant shantytown that had sprung up around the walls of Mousillon during the Dark Age of Bretonnia was now half sunk into the mire, second storey floors now level with the mud as the swamp consumed the floors beneath. Roofs peeked out from the morass, black croaking crows and grunting grey gulls making their nests in the ruins of chimneys and gable windows. Near the river, the last remains of quays and docks could be seen, half sunk into the mud banks that had built around them, the waters of the river many yards from the ends of the piers. Boats and ships of all shape and size were likewise trapped in the mud, their broken hulls displaying jagged gashes and splintered wood. The shore of a siren’s island could have been of no greater grimness than the decaying port of Mousillon.