by C. L. Werner
Hoping to capitalise upon the attack of his comrade, the spearman to Corbus’s right thrust his own weapon at the knight’s back as he spun. Yet even as the soldier struck, the knight was recovering from his own attack. Corbus bent at the knees, dropping into a crouch that let the spear stab harmlessly into empty air. As he bent, the knight also spun his body, bringing the murderous edge of his sword sweeping around. The sharp steel edge passed beneath the out-thrust spear, gnawing through the leg of the man who wielded it. The soldier spilled to the ground, shrieking, as he held the bleeding stump that had once been a knee.
The other spearmen hastily fell back to their original position, risking worried glances back toward their leader. The disarmed soldier scrambled up from the ground, hurrying to rejoin his companions. Corbus noted the sudden movement and with astonishing speed fell upon the fleeing man, his sword slashing downward and opening the soldier’s back. The man pitched to the dirt in a bloodied heap that moaned and writhed in its death agonies.
From his position near the storehouse, Feder had watched the entire gruesome display. He closed his gaping mouth, snapping out of his horrified fascination. The squire drew his own weapon now, but made no move to draw any closer to the knight who had challenged him. Instead, the squire gestured with the naked blade toward the buildings that opened onto the old hay market. His signal given, the lurking troops that had been hidden within burst forth, spears, swords and axes gripped in their sweaty fists.
‘Now you’ll see what happens to curs who nip at their masters’ hands!’ Feder shouted, emboldened by the now overwhelming numbers he commanded. Corbus reacted to the sudden appearance of twenty armed men in the colours of his enemy with little more concern than he had shown to Feder’s spearmen. The red knight stalked back toward his own halberdiers, who were themselves slowly forming into a defensive circle. Still, Corbus fixed Feder with a look that was more murderous than any the squire had ever met. Feder reconsidered his original intention to join his men in the attack. He’d stay back and coordinate things from a position where he might better be able to judge the situation.
He watched as one of the men-at-arms took a swipe at Corbus with a long-handled axe. The knight’s sword clove through the man’s shoulder and his return stroke sent the soldier’s screaming head bouncing across the square.
Yes, definitely better to keep himself in reserve, Feder concluded.
Brunner watched from the shadow of an alley as Feder’s men sprung the ambush. He had to admit that the trap was a convincing one. It spoke volumes about how desperate the aristocrats of Mousillon were to be rid of Marimund that they should invest so many resources and so much effort in what was little more than a diversion. As the bounty hunter watched the crimson-clad Sir Corbus hack a chunk of meat the size of a melon from the side of a swordsman who had foolishly pressed the assault, Brunner also came to appreciate just how little human life meant to those same aristocrats. They would expend the lives of their own men without compunction or care, seeing them as just another resource to be gambled and replaced. The bounty hunter shrugged. Dwelling in a disease-ridden pesthole like Mousillon, he could understand how the value of human life might become a bit skewed in the minds of the city’s nobility.
Ironically enough, it looked as though Feder might actually stand a chance of succeeding with the ambush. Brunner could see two of the red and grey-clad halberdiers lying on the ground, and one of those who yet remained was favouring his left leg and the ghastly slash that had been dealt to it by an opponent’s spear. Of Feder’s men, only four of the ambushers had been taken out of action, three of them the handiwork of Sir Corbus. Always a quick judge of the fighting prowess of prospective enemies, the bounty hunter was suitably impressed by the amazing speed and brutal strength the knight possessed. It was almost as if someone had stuffed an ogre into the suit of red plate mail and then given it a heavy dose of Crimson Shade. Brunner had seen orcs sometimes work the sort of maiming, mutilating force that was behind Corbus’s sword, but orcs did so with much less skill and efficiency. Still, Brunner calculated that even a formidable foe like Sir Corbus must eventually acknowledge the simple weight of numbers arrayed against him. Feder still had eighteen men, pitted against Sir Corbus and his two surviving halberdiers.
It was time to shift the odds.
The bounty hunter emerged from the alleyway, his prized repeating crossbow clutched in his gloved hands. Without warning, or waiting for Feder’s soldiers to notice him, Brunner fired into the black-mantled attackers. His first bolt tore through the back of an axeman harrying the injured halberdier, the force of the impact spinning the axeman and causing his body to roll as it struck the ground. The second shot exploded the shoulder of a swordsman who had hoped to exploit an opening in Sir Corbus’s greatly beleaguered defences.
The man cried out, dropping the sword from his now useless arm. Alerted to the backstabber’s presence, Corbus spun, his own blade neatly opening the injured man’s windpipe.
Two spearmen were the objects of Brunner’s remaining shots, both men lingering at the fringes of the body of attackers, awaiting an opening through which to thrust their weapons. One of the men screamed in agony as his knee was pulped by the powerful steel missile, falling to the dirt and clutching his wound. His comrade, turning to see what had happened to the other spearman was rewarded with the last bolt, the steel dart crunching into the man’s lower jaw. He crumpled into a gargling mass of agony.
The swift, brutal attack had its desired effect. The men-at-arms became disordered, their slow methodical effort to whittle away the defences of Corbus and his men broken by Brunner’s unexpected attack. The bounty hunter smiled beneath his helm as he saw several of the black and gold liveried soldiers turn towards him, obscene Bretonnian oaths spilling from their lips. He knew that Feder had been informed as to the true purpose of the ambush, but it would be just like the cold, calculating mind of the man’s master to also withhold that information from the men who would be doing the actual fighting. After all, the ambush had to be realistic.
Brunner let his crossbow hang from the leather strap that was affixed to its stock and wrapped about his own shoulders. The bounty hunter replaced it with the cold steel of Drakesmalice and the gaping barrel of his pistol. He suspected that the men rushing toward him did so not merely from anger at the bounty hunter’s intrusion into their trap, but from thoughts that Brunner would prove a much easier kill than Sir Corbus. The bounty hunter smiled grimly once more. That was an illusion he would very quickly dissuade them of.
The foremost of the men-at-arms was thrown back as Brunner’s pistol sent a bullet slamming into the man’s chest. The loud report of the firearm was amplified by the narrow square, causing weird echoes as the sound danced amid the broken walls and rotting shingles. The three men who had followed after him came to a stop as though they had struck an invisible wall. Gunpowder was a rare thing in Bretonnia, and seldom employed in weapons. To the men-at-arms, the sudden death of their companion seemed an act of sorcery, and it was with the awe and horror of such dark magics that they regarded the smoking ruin left at the centre of his torso.
Brunner did not allow the men time to snap out of their shock, lunging forward into their midst before they had begun to recover. The bounty hunter’s longsword slashed down the shoulder and chest of one startled spearman, dropping him before he could even raise his weapon. The swordsman beside him was given a killing thrust to his stomach, Drakesmalice’s keen edge tearing through the antique leather armour that enclosed the man’s body as easily as parchment. The third attacker saw the bleeding bodies of his comrades and gave voice to a pathetic cry of terror, flinging his weapon from him and running with all speed for the nearest alleyway.
Brunner looked up from his handiwork, not surprised to see that the other remaining men-at-arms had fallen into a rout, scattering across the hay market like rats flying from a sinking ship. Three more of their number had been killed, the bodies bearing the butchering wounds of Sir Corbus’s sword. The red kn
ight was glowering at the fleeing men, clenching his mailed fists in silent frustration. Then his gaze turned toward the storehouse at the far end of the square. The knight stooped and lifted a halberd dropped by one of his slain soldiers. Corbus hefted the heavy weapon in his hand, as though judging its weight and balance. Before Brunner could grasp what the knight was doing, Corbus drew his body back and threw the heavy halberd across the square as effortlessly as though it were a javelin. The halberd crashed into the door of the storehouse with a meaty thunk and the shriek of splintered wood. The rotten wood of the door gave way as the dead weight behind it toppled forward, the blade of the halberd embedded in the dead man’s chest. The bounty hunter decided that Feder should probably have found a better place to hide.
The red knight turned away from his amazing feat, a deep and satisfied smile on his face. He paused, staring intently at the bloody carnage all around him, then made his way toward the bounty hunter. He found Brunner recovering his crossbow bolt from the skull of a spearman. Corbus paused long enough to stamp the throat of the corpse’s injured comrade beneath his armoured boot. The bounty hunter pretended to pay no attention to the knight’s advance, discreetly sliding the hilt of Drakesmalice around so that it might be easily drawn.
‘Your advent in this affair was opportune,’ Corbus growled down to him. ‘I find myself wondering why? You are not one of Duc Marimund’s men, and any man who would strike his enemies from behind and at distance is hardly going to take offence at an uneven fight.’ There was both challenge and suspicion in the knight’s voice, and Brunner had the impression that it was but the tip of a vast iceberg of rage boiling within the knight.
‘You are quite correct,’ Brunner replied with an elaborate calm, stuffing the recovered bolt into a leather box fixed to his belt. ‘I have no scruples when it comes to a fight. Results are what matter, not outmoded concepts of honour on the battlefield.’ The handsome features of Sir Corbus contorted into a feral snarl as the bounty hunter voiced his disdain for all rules of combat. For a moment, Brunner froze, wondering if perhaps he had overplayed his hand, antagonised the knight beyond any traces of gratitude Corbus might be entertaining. The knight’s hand closed about the grip of his sword, and did not move from there.
After a tense moment of silence, Brunner continued: ‘I spent some time watching the fight before deciding which side to help,’ he admitted at last, moving to recover the bolt that had exploded the other spearman’s knee.
‘Why then did you help me?’ Corbus demanded.
The bounty hunter stared into the knight’s burning eyes. ‘I reasoned that your enemies had everything rather well in hand,’ Brunner told him. ‘Certainly they might lose a few more men to your admirable swordsmanship, but in the end, they would carry the day. And they would hardly be interested in hiring a passing mercenary who saw fit to invite himself to their ambush. You, on the other hand, looked as though an extra man might come in very handy. You might be interested in engaging the services of a warrior who helped pull your bacon from the fire.’
Corbus shook his head, snorting with contempt. ‘They had no real hope of victory. No matter how many of them they sent, I would have killed them all. There is not a sword in Mousillon that has yet impressed me.’ The knight’s voice fairly dripped with scorn and frustration. Brunner realised that Corbus was not boasting when he said that he could have slain twenty foes on his own; the man truly believed it. Brunner wondered if there was a sane knight to be found in Mousillon.
The knight gestured at the bodies strewn about, several of them Brunner’s handiwork. ‘Your skill with the blade is not entirely beneath contempt,’ Corbus admitted grudgingly. ‘But your tactics display no discipline, no nobility.’ The knight sneered at Brunner. ‘Such a man is like a wolf, a savage beast unworthy of trust, unworthy of honour.’
‘Perhaps your master will see things otherwise,’ Brunner retorted. ‘Especially as you’ve lost two men this day. Possibly three, if your master does not have a healer in his employ.’
Corbus turned to gaze at his remaining men. The unharmed halberdier was helping the wounded one limp his way across the square. After a pause, the knight nodded his head.
‘What you say is true, sell-sword,’ Corbus said. ‘Duc Marimund’s forces have been diminished as a result of this treacherous attack. He may indeed find a use even for an honourless dog such as yourself.’ The knight paused again, displaying his gleaming teeth in a mirthless smile.
‘At least until warriors of quality can be found.’
Brunner was led away from the carnage of the hay market, back to the castle of Duc Marimund. Corbus was at the head of the little procession, the two halberdiers following in his wake with Brunner forming the rearguard. The red knight paused several times to flash a hostile glare back at the bounty hunter, seemingly annoyed to find that Brunner was still there.
The journey took rather longer than Brunner had expected, winding through the rotting, dilapidated husk of the old city. Corbus seemed utterly unconcerned that they might encounter any wandering patrols in the service of Marimund’s enemies. The memory of Corbus’s insane boast that he could have prevailed against twenty enemies did nothing to ease Brunner’s concerns. However, as luck or fortune would have it, the only people they encountered in their trek were some scrawny peasants, who quickly took flight back into the shadows of their hovels. Finally, when the position of the now distant ruin of Duc Malford’s castle told him that they were nearing the landward edge of the city, Brunner saw the black mass of Marimund’s fortress rise from the squalor.
It must have started its existence as a gatehouse, the bounty hunter decided, that role no doubt voided as the swamp beyond the walls had continued to grow in its rapacity and the once vibrant port of Mousillon became choked with mud, squalor and ill-favour. With its old role voided, one of the aristocrats of the city had taken it upon himself to expand the old fortification, adding a curtain wall that formed a large courtyard. Towers had come later, and then still another curtain wall. Brunner could imagine all the homes and shops that had been levelled to make room for the castle’s expansion. The result was something as defended from an attack originating within the city as the unlikely event of an attack issuing from the depths of the swamp.
A narrow trench surrounded the three sides of the castle that were within the confines of the city’s outer wall. The depression had filled with seepage from the swamp, foul stagnant water from which reeds and lily pads protruded. Brunner stared at the moat as they made their way toward the drawbridge that spanned it, surprised to find a reptilian eye staring back at him from the scum that floated upon it. Apparently swimming hole was not one of the moat’s other functions.
Sir Corbus dismissed the two halberdiers after the group had passed over the drawbridge and beneath the steel portcullis that loomed above the castle gate. The two men hobbled away to find relief for the injured man’s wounds. Corbus paid them no further attention, instead focusing his intense stare on Brunner, snarling for the bounty hunter to follow him if he still intended to see Duc Marimund.
The duc’s throne room was not unlike every other great hall Brunner had been conducted into within the realm of Bretonnia. A good deal shabbier, to be certain, but much the same. Trophies hung from the walls, mostly taking the form of the heads of mighty beasts slain in single combat by the valiant knights of the household, but scattered amongst them were the odd banner of some invading army and the helmet of a vanquished rival. The animal heads were showing signs of mould and rot, the old helmets starting to display the rust quietly gnawing at them. Brunner imagined that Duc Marimund did not spend a great deal of his wealth on servants. The great hall in particular displayed the marked lack of a woman’s touch.
Marimund himself was seated in a high-backed chair of some dark wood that had been polished to a bright shine. Brunner guessed that it could even be crafted from mahogany, a rare wood originating in the stinking jungles south of Araby. If such were the case, it was a relic from the
days of Mousillon’s prosperity, and as such a valuable symbol for any man whose ambition was to restore that prosperity. Any noble brought before Marimund could not fail to note the antique, exotic chair, and recall the splendour that had once made such things commonplace in the halls of the aristocracy.
The duc was a less imposing sight: of no extraordinary stature or physical strength, he was fairly dwarfed by the hulking knight he had chosen to be his champion. Indeed, the features of Marimund’s face were soft, though with a cunning quality about them.
The noble’s dark eyes were studious, cold and had a calculating shine to them. The duc wore his black hair cropped short in the rounded fashion favoured by many Bretonnians. His clothes were simple, a red tunic upon which was worked a rampant wolf in silver thread. The duc’s leggings were grey, his boots black leather polished to a shine that rivalled that of his throne. A silver belt, inlaid with gemstones, circled his waist, a small jewelled dagger hanging from it.
The duc’s keen eyes studied Brunner for a moment. Marimund turned to mutter a command to the two soldiers who flanked his throne, then returned his attention to Corbus and his guest.
‘News has already reached my ears,’ Marimund stated, ‘of the aid you provided my champion when he was attacked by the treacherous forces of the malcontents within my city.’ The seated noble extended a hand that was heavy with jewelled rings to indicate the glowering red knight. ‘It is seldom that Sir Corbus is in need of assistance. However, you have the gratitude of Mousillon’s rightful liege lord.’
Brunner took a step forward, ignoring the surly snarl that hissed from Sir Corbus. ‘I am but a humble warrior, my lord,’ Brunner told the seated nobleman. ‘If I have earned enough favour with your excellency that you may see fit to hire my sword, then such is reward enough.’