by C. L. Werner
A scream had sounded from the street behind him. Turning, Ulgrin had found that the soldier detailed to follow him had maintained his vigil, even after the dark had settled upon Mousillon. The poor wretch had fallen prey to a second pack of ravenous ghouls, the scrawny, leather-skinned monsters pressing upon the man-at-arms from every quarter, bearing him down with sheer weight of numbers. Briefly, the dwarf considered intervening in the fight, he doubted if he’d leave even an elf to such a fate. But the soldier’s screams had suddenly died into a liquid gargle and as one of the ghouls turned its rat-like face toward Ulgrin, the gory object hanging from its jaws had told him that it was much too late to help the man.
Ulgrin listened as the scuffling noise faded away. Ghoul or phantom, whatever had made the sound was moving away from him, heading back toward the graveyard. The dwarf continued on his way, seeing the black bulk of Duc Marimund’s castle looming up out of the darkness ahead. Torches flickered on the battlements and the dwarf could make out the sentries, high above. The sentries seemed competent enough, being careful to match their movements so that no quarter might remain unseen. The dwarf snarled a colourful oath under his breath. He had hoped things might get easy for him at some point during the night.
Even as he cursed his luck, the gods seemed to answer Ulgrin’s complaint. A foul, raw smell wafted past the dwarfs nose, the stink of sewage and stagnant water. The dwarf turned from his contemplation of the castle’s battlements and followed his nose. He had followed the rank stench for some time, allowing it to lead him down narrow alleys and across crumbling lanes, before he saw it, a slick of black sludge oozing from beneath the street. The dwarf hurried forward, scraping away at the muck and mud until he exposed the stonework beneath. There could be no mistake, the slime was indeed issuing from between two of the stones. Pressing his head against the ground, Ulgrin could hear the trickle of water flowing below. Surely the underground culvert Brunner had spoken of.
The dwarf lifted his axe above his head, driving it downward with all of his tremendous strength. The blade of the weapon sank into the join between the two stones. With an exclamation of victory, Ulgrin lent his entire weight into sliding the blade back and forth between the rocks. As he worried at the gap between them, the stones began to shift, crumbling apart where moss and mould had already weakened them. Before long there was a mighty crack and one of the rocks crumpled in upon itself, slipping into the darkness it had contained. A fountain of filth vomited from the opening, a black tar-like sludge that engulfed Ulgrin from head to toe. The dwarf retreated from the deluge, vainly trying to wipe the crud from his face and beard. After several minutes, the bubbling filth subsided, whatever blockage had caused it dislodged by the change in pressure.
‘Damn you, Brunner,’ Ulgrin swore, slapping a cake of filth from his helmet onto the ground. ‘We’re going to have another discussion about the split after this!’ the dwarf decided. He sloshed his way through the abominable stream and gazed down into the culvert. It was a small tunnel, crude in the way that any man-built tunnel was bound to be. It was just wide enough for Ulgrin to fit into however, and high enough that the dwarf could walk through if he bent his body at the waist. An unpleasant prospect, but far more pleasant than crawling through the filthy tar that coated the bottom of the tunnel. Biting down his disgust, the dwarf dropped down into the culvert.
The dwarf’s eyes, hardened by the perpetual murk of the mines and caverns his people called home, adjusted almost instantly to the blackness about him. Realising that his great axe was far too large to manage within the narrow confines of the sewer, Ulgrin strapped the weapon to his back, opting instead for a throwing axe gripped in each of his hands.
Ulgrin stopped for a moment to imagine Brunner, safe and warm within the black knight’s inn, far from corpse-eating ghouls, laughing ghosts and tunnels reeking of excrement. The dwarf snarled a colourful curse on the bounty hunter’s parents before beginning his trek into the darkness. He had not gone far, however, before a sound ahead of him made him stop in his tracks. It was a strange, moaning whine, somehow familiar yet magnified in such a fashion as to be unsettling and horrible. The dwarf’s keen ears could detect the sound of something sloshing through the muck ahead, the sounds pausing every time the strange wail-chirp filled the tunnel, then resuming with a wet, slimy flopping noise.
The dwarf’s sharp eyes could dimly see something moving in the tunnel, closing upon him with a strange, irregular undulating motion. Ulgrin fished a match from his belt, striking it upon the cold steel of his throwing axe. The light flared up, bringing a shudder of protest from the thing before him. The dwarf could only stare on in shock. In size it was no larger than a goat, but its shape was that of some gigantic frog. Webbed paws waved before its slimy green body, trying to ward off the light while mammoth black eyes blinked shut.
Ulgrin had only a moment to take in the shape of the tunnel monster, for the huge mouth that sprawled beneath its head snapped open and something wet and leathery wrapped itself about his hand, extinguishing the match. The dwarf struggled to maintain his footing as the loathsome frog began to retract its tongue, pulling the bounty killer towards its cavernous mouth. The slime coating the floor gave poor purchase for his feet and it was with a cry of frustration that Ulgrin slammed down onto his side. From his prone position, the dwarf slashed upward at the amphibian’s ensnaring tongue, striking it a glancing blow with his first attack. Instantly the dwarf felt his hand released as the injured tongue snapped back into the frog’s mouth. The dwarf could hear the flop-splash of the giant frog as it retreated back up the tunnel, no doubt to find prey that didn’t bite back.
The dwarf lifted himself from the slime, recovering the hand axe he had lost during the brief combat when the frog’s tongue had wrapped itself about his hand. ‘Oh yes,’ the dwarf grumbled. ‘We are most definitely going to discuss the split.’
The now dreaded wail-chirp resumed, this time sounding from the darkness behind the dwarf. With an air of weary disgust, Ulgrin turned to face the approaching monster. The wail-chirp of the second giant frog was soon joined by others singing out from the gloom beyond it.
‘Damn you, Brunner!’ Ulgrin snarled as he prepared to meet the attack.
The room in which Gobineau awoke was cold and dark and had the distinctive smell of an old latrine. The rogue groaned as his senses returned to him and the pounding inside his skull began anew. He tried to move a hand to press down on his throbbing head, but found that they were held, bound to the stone wall behind him by thick iron chains. The bandit licked his swollen lips. Obviously Marimund was taking no chances with him.
Things had seemed to be going so very well. He’d gotten into Mousillon without too much trouble, managing to avoid the more thickly populated slums and their perpetually hostile denizens. There were still enough men in the city that remembered him and had not become quite so desperate to murder indiscriminately. One of these old acquaintances had led Gobineau by the safest route to Marimund’s castle on the edge of the city. The duc had permitted him entry into his castle without even any sort of haggling on Gobineau’s part. It had truly seemed Marimund was pleased to see him after all these years.
Then things had gone wrong. It had started when the duc had personally offered Gobineau a cup of wine. Instead of placing it in the rogue’s hand, the duc had smashed it against the side of his head, dropping Gobineau to the floor. Then the kicking had started and the duc was quickly joined by a dozen or so of his men. Somewhere along the way, he’d mercifully lost consciousness, to awaken within what must be Marimund’s dungeons.
He’d have to talk to Tietza, try to get word to her of his predicament. Gobineau was certain that she’d be able to soothe her husband’s temper and arrange to have him released from the dungeons.
‘I would not entertain that particular hope,’ a soft, melodious voice spoke from the shadows. Gobineau lifted his head, seeing a tall, slender figure illuminated by the light of a single candle standing in the doorway of his ce
ll. As his eyes adjusted to the feeble light, Gobineau could see that it was a woman, garbed in a heavy cloak of red cloth fringed in fox fur. The woman’s details were sharp and noble, and chilling in their impossible perfection of beauty. The long hair that hung about her shoulders caught the light like spun gold, and her eyes, impossibly, seemed of no less vibrant a hue. Gobineau had never seen one before, but he was certain that he looked upon the face of one of the fey folk, the mysterious elves of tale and legend.
‘Why… why should I not have hope?’ the rogue asked. ‘Is that not the right of every prisoner?’
The impossibly perfect lips drew back in a soft smile. ‘Yes, but your own hope is impossible,’ the woman told him. ‘Have you not wondered why Duc Marimund received you in such a manner?’ As she voiced her question, the light from the candle narrowed, shining out like the beam of a lighthouse. The ray of light settled upon a skeleton shackled to the wall not three feet from where Gobineau was imprisoned. The necklace that hung about the skeleton’s neck stirred memories.
‘It seems the duc forgot to feed her,’ Gobineau commented. ‘I hope he doesn’t have the same in mind for me. Starvation is a pretty unpleasant way to go.’
‘I should not worry about it,’ the elf told him. ‘After learning of your tryst with his wife, the duc has had many years to reflect upon exactly what he will do with you. I am certain that it will make starving look rather appealing.’
Gobineau spent a moment imagining just what plans Duc Marimund might be considering, then decided that he certainly didn’t want to be around for any of them. He tried to straighten himself as much as the shackles would allow, favouring the strange elf woman with his most ingratiating smile. He hoped that his face wasn’t too badly bruised as to spoil the effect.
‘You know, I am not an entirely impoverished man,’ Gobineau told her. ‘A bright, bold lass like yourself might make a good deal for herself if she were to help me.’
The elf’s laughter was light, like the tinkling of tiny bells.
‘You spoke much in your delirium,’ she said. ‘I’d sooner trust a serpent to watch over a songbird. Yet it is possible that you can help me. In your fever, you said that you were being hunted by someone. I would hear more about him.’
‘And why should I tell you anything?’ Gobineau demanded. The elf laughed again.
‘Because as Duc Marimund’s enchantress, the exact manner of your passing has been left to me to devise. How inventive your death is will depend upon how much you tell me and whether your information pleases me.’
The elf witch’s voice dropped into a low whisper that carried with it an overwhelming aura of command. ‘Tell me what you know of the man they call Brunner.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Squire Feder was an unpleasant man to look upon. A quarter of his teeth were missing, victims of his violent temper and proclivity for engaging in fierce brawls when deep in his cups. His nose had been bent at an awkward angle by some bruiser’s fist, spoiling the symmetry of his face. As though not already ugly enough to look upon, the squire’s skin had contracted a livid red rash, some noxious yet non-lethal reminder of the dread red pox that had once decimated Mousillon. It was a commonly held superstition in the cursed city that the ‘Blood Blight’ only afflicted the cruellest and most wicked of the city’s population, a curse visited upon evil souls by the Lady herself. Feder did little to discredit such superstitions.
The squire was seated behind a crude table formed by placing a rotting board atop a pair of barrels. A third barrel offered the thug a place to sit. His bleary gaze was only partially focused upon the set of iron scales that had been set upon the table. The corn farmers were obliged to provide a full measure every week during the harvest for their masters, a measure that had to match the one which balanced the scales. It was an unspoken understanding between squire and peasant that there was a lead bar hidden within the bundle of corn which the farmers had to balance. Feder felt the pretence of doing things honestly would be a waste of everyone’s time.
Today, however, Feder had even less interest in the proceedings than usual. The squire looked around him, studying the narrow streets that opened into the old hay market. Soon, the dirty little square would be resounding to the sounds of battle, the screams of the dying, the pleas of the wounded. Feder smiled in anticipation. He appreciated combat, looked forward to it like a lovers embrace. The squire shifted his gaze to take in the four black-garbed men-at-arms who stood near his table, leaning on their spears with feigned boredom, but whose eyes were watching the streets every bit as keenly as the squire’s.
Marimund’s lackey, Sir Corbus, was expected to arrive before Feder had concluded his collection of tribute, at least so his master had told him. Feder dearly hoped that the brutal champion would show, because he had another twenty men hidden within the buildings that faced the square. Even Corbus would have trouble dealing with such odds. It was a pity that his master’s orders did not allow for Feder to remove Marimund’s champion once and for all, because the squire was certain that this time such a feat could be accomplished. Still, orders were orders, and Feder had seen far too often what became of those who displeased his master.
The frightened screams of peasants brought the squire out of his reverie. The smile grew broader on his ugly face, and he loosened his sword in its sheath. A trickle of peasants ran into the square, hastening toward the lanes that exited on the far side. Those farmers who had already begun to present their goods became panicked as well, joining the newcomers in their flight. Feder did not try to hinder them. They would only get in the way of what was coming, and besides that fact, few of the farmers had had the presence of mind to recover their crop before fleeing.
The source of the peasants’ alarm was a group of armed men, only five in number. Sir Corbus had a very high opinion of his own abilities and would have deemed it beneath him to take any more soldiers along with him on his sordid little raid than he was expecting to face. The knight’s arrogant contempt for his adversaries was one of the most predictable things about him. Feder smiled as he watched the minions of Duc Marimund stalk into the square, their steps sure and certain, as though they were within their own district, not deep within that of another of Mousillon’s ruling nobles.
Marimund’s soldiers were armed and equipped slightly better than Feder’s. Each of the four halberdiers flanking Corbus wore a shirt of chainmail beneath his crimson and grey mantle and the kettle helms that shadowed their faces did not display the same signs of wear and rust that Feder might have expected to see. Sir Corbus himself was an imposing sight, fully a head taller than any of his men, his towering stature enhanced by the steel wings that formed the crest of his helmet. The knight wore a suit of armour that had been stained a dark crimson, every inch of the breastplate and greaves engraved so as to resemble the scaly hide of a serpent. The face that glared outward from the open face of the knight’s helm was at once handsome and feral, like some great beast masquerading as a prince of men.
Sir Corbus lifted his sword, snarling an unintelligible command to his soldiers, pointing his sword at Feder. Despite the lurking troops awaiting only his word to spring the trap, the squire felt the colour drain from his face as the fiery eyes of Corbus burned into his own. Suddenly, he was not quite so eager to accept the imposing knight’s challenge. Perhaps it would have been better to have brought thirty men, even forty?
Feder began to back away from his table, the sudden motion causing his chair to tumble onto its side and roll away. The squire’s bodyguard watched their leader’s nervous reaction, uncertainty written on their faces.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ the squire hissed. ‘Protect the tribute, you fools!’ The four men-at-arms lifted their spears, shuffling forward to place themselves between Marimund’s men and the sacks of corn that had already been collected.
Corbus paused in his steps to utter a laugh fairly dripping with contempt. He interposed his blade before the nearest of his own soldiers, motioning for his he
nchmen to hang back. Feder marvelled as he watched the crimson knight stride forward once the advance of his men had been halted. Surely even Corbus was not so arrogant as to face four spearmen by himself?
Corbus gestured with his blade once more, pointing it toward Feder. Despite the distance involved, the squire flinched. ‘I allow you the honour of facing me,’ the knight’s voice bellowed like the roar of a lion. ‘Impress me and I shall show mercy.’
Feder backed away from the imposing warrior, sweat trickling down his broken features. After a moment he composed himself, snapping his gaze from Sir Corbus to his own spearmen. ‘What are you waiting for?’ the squire cried. ‘You are four to his one! Kill him!’
The spearmen cast worried looks at the glowering red knight, then slowly, almost reluctantly, began to approach him. As they did so, the soldiers spread out, seeking to enclose their adversary within a semi-circle of spear points. Corbus did not react to their approach beyond a twisting of his lip and a disappointed sigh. The knight kept his intense stare fixed upon Feder, who now had his back to the warped wooden wall of an old storehouse. His eyes still bore into the squire’s when the first spearman attacked.
The soldier to the extreme left of Corbus thrust with his weapon for the comparatively weak join between the armour plates that enclosed the knight’s front and those that guarded his back. It was one of the few places where a spear might be expected to penetrate the armour and injure the man within. The man-at-arms, however, did not anticipate the speed and agility of his enemy. With an almost inhuman snarl, Sir Corbus spun, lashing out with his sword, parrying the weapon with such force that the spearhead and nearly a foot of wooden shaft was severed from his attacker’s weapon. Unbalanced, the soldier fell to the ground, staring with horror at his mutilated spear.