Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  ‘This healing salve will restore your strength and ease your wounds,’ she told the bounty hunter. ‘Agree to help me and I shall administer it to you.’

  Brunner was quiet for a moment. He was not certain just how much of the enchantress’s tale he could trust. She had betrayed him to her master once before, and Brunner could tell that there was something she was not telling him. Perhaps his escape was nothing more than an elaborate hoax, a way for her to outshine Corbus in the esteem of their master? Brunner considered the possibility, then shrugged his shoulders, a motion that caused a fresh jolt of pain to surge through his body. He had nothing to lose by accepting Ithilweil’s terms.

  ‘I agree,’ he told the elf.

  Ithilweil smiled at him, her pale hand lighting upon his forearm, kneading the paste into his skin. Brunner could feel his flesh tingle as the paste did its work, numbing the pain.

  ‘I have brought the uniform of one of the guards,’ Ithilweil said, moving her ministrations to the bounty killer’s scarred chest. Brunner winced as her fingers passed over a jagged slash that recalled to him the brutal strength of the orc warlord Gnashrak. The elf did not pause, knowing that the bounty hunter’s discomfort had no connection to her salve. ‘You are much more likely to pass unnoticed dressed as one of the guards,’ Ithilweil continued, a slight flush coming to her graceful features, ‘than you are clad in naught but a loincloth.’

  Brunner nodded his head in agreement. ‘So long as you brought along his sword as well,’ the bounty hunter told her. ‘I do not intend to be recaptured.’

  Several minutes later, Brunner slid the mail coif over his head, completing his transformation from prisoner into guard. The bounty hunter tossed aside the heavy kettle helm, which had proven too large for him. Perhaps the guard to which it belonged suffered from a swelled head even when he wasn’t drinking drugged wine. Brunner grinned as he gripped the longsword that went with the uniform, carefully studying its balance.

  ‘Any idea where Marimund took my sword?’ Brunner asked as he made a few practise swipes with his new weapon.

  ‘He has taken your equipment to his own chambers,’ Ithilweil told the bounty hunter. ‘Marimund was impressed by the unique character and foreign cast of your arms and armour. He is obsessed with all things magical and no doubt intends to compare them with the enchanted devices illustrated in the many scrolls and books he has collected.’

  Brunner stopped practising with the stolen sword. He fixed the elf woman with a demanding stare. ‘How well guarded are the duc’s chambers?’

  ‘When Duc Marimund is within them, very well guarded,’ Ithilweil told him. ‘However, I have arranged for the duc to be occupied elsewhere in the castle, a minor enchantment I arranged that should keep him distracted for some time. With him gone, there should only be two guards.’

  Brunner nodded his head. ‘Two men should not prove an insurmountable challenge.’ A sceptical smile broadened across the bounty hunter’s face when he looked back at the enchantress. ‘Why did you arrange the distraction? How did you know I would ask after my belongings and not simply drag you to the nearest exit? What is it that you are looking to steal from Marimund?’

  Ithilweil took her time in answering, her eyes narrowing with annoyance that the bounty hunter continued to treat her with such suspicion, and annoyed that she now had to give voice to the fear that had been gnawing at her for days, the fear that had at last spurred her to action.

  ‘Several days ago,’ the elf said at last, ‘Marimund captured another prisoner, a petty thief who led the duc’s wife astray some years in the past. This thief had on him a device, a magical talisman crafted by my people.’ The elf’s features became stern, as unyielding as marble. ‘I cannot leave here without it.’

  The bounty hunter pondered Ithilweil’s confession. ‘It was from this thief that you learned of me? He told you that I was hunting him? That is how you knew my name?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ithilweil admitted. ‘When I heard the story of how you helped Corbus, I knew that you had made a deal with the other aristocrats, and there are only three people in this castle they hate enough to see assassinated. I could not trust to luck that it was Corbus they wanted dead.’

  Brunner waved aside Ithilweil’s explanation. ‘If this dog still lives, I want you to take me to him.’ The bounty hunter clenched his fist in anticipation of the gold Gobineau would bring him when he got the rogue back to Couronne.

  ‘He is not important,’ the elf protested. ‘Leave him to Marimund. It is more important that we get the Fell Fang and escape!’

  ‘He’s important to me,’ Brunner countered. ‘As for this artefact of yours, we’ll still make a detour in our escape to collect it. If Marimund has promised Gobineau as pleasant a stay here as he did myself, we may even find him most eager to help us.’ Ithilweil opened her mouth to argue, but the bounty hunter motioned her to silence, gesturing for her to lead the way.

  Gobineau stirred within his cell, alarmed by the sounds emanating from the corridor outside. Had Marimund decided his fate already? The rogue ground his teeth together. He knew that he shouldn’t have trusted the elf witch. With a fatalistic sigh, Gobineau watched as the faint gleam of torchlight began to grow in the window of his cell.

  The door swung open, revealing the elf witch. Gobineau stared for a moment, drinking in the sight of her lithe body in its new covering of leather, much more appealing than the voluminous red gown she had worn on their first meeting. So enthralled was he by Ithilweil’s slender figure that Gobineau did not notice the armed guard with her until the man made his way into the cell. The rogue quickly forgot about the elf’s shapely body when he sighted the sword clutched in the soldier’s fist. Gobineau flinched away from the bared weapon, squirming against the wall.

  The guard fixed Gobineau with a stern gaze, his icy eyes boring into the bandit’s own. Hastily concocted pleas and entreaties died on the tip of Gobineau’s tongue. A man with such eyes as these was beyond calls for mercy and promises of gratitude. There was more chance in reasoning with a wolf.

  The warrior spoke in a harsh, brutal tone. ‘Do you want to live?’ he demanded. For the first time, Gobineau noticed the set of iron keys gripped in the guard’s other hand.

  ‘After careful deliberation, I would have to answer yes,’ the rogue told him. He did not have any idea what was going on, but anything that would see him unchained had to be an improvement.

  The guard continued to glare at the prisoner, making no move to unlock his chains. ‘If I free you, you will do as I say until we have made our escape? Upon whatever gods you honour?’

  ‘You cannot trust him,’ Ithilweil stated from the doorway. ‘Time is short. Leave him.’ Gobineau rolled his eyes toward the enchantress. Most certainly it was an unwise man who trusted any woman, even an elven one. He scowled at her, then returned his attention to the soldier.

  ‘If it means seeing this castle at my back, you can tell me to walk on fire, and I would just start walking,’ Gobineau declared. The guard considered him for a moment longer, then unlocked the manacles fixed to the rogue’s wrists and the iron bindings that crossed his waist. Ithilweil uttered a sharp whistle of disapproval from the hallway.

  ‘By the Lady,’ Gobineau crowed, massaging his wrists, ‘you’ll not regret this! My gratitude and friendship are legendary across all of Bretonnia! I am in your debt and shall never be able to repay you, though I shall endeavour to do so until the crows come for my eyes and the worms nip at my feet.’

  ‘You can make a start by shutting that flapping mouth of yours,’ the guard growled, turning to leave the cell.

  ‘One question,’ Gobineau said, hurrying to keep pace with his rescuer. ‘Why free me? Not that I am complaining,’ he hastily added. The guard shot Ithilweil a warning look.

  ‘Strength in numbers,’ he told the rogue. ‘The more people Marimund is looking for, the less likely he is to catch them.’ The soldier tossed the key ring aside, the iron ring clattering down the corridor as it rattled i
ts way into the darkness. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I don’t trust the elf.’

  That, at least, Gobineau decided, sounded very close to the truth.

  Ithilweil walked at the rear of their small procession, her face contorted with misgiving. Perhaps she had made a mistake in pinning her hopes on the bounty hunter. Brunner seemed intent on only one thing—securing the gold he hoped to gain when he returned Gobineau to the royal court in Couronne. He was hardly the noble hero she desperately needed, nothing more than a mercenary parasite, a lone wolf intent only on filling his own belly.

  Still, there was little chance that she would have another opportunity. There was small hope that one of her own people would miraculously appear in Mousillon—let alone survive the superstitious mob that had claimed her own shipmates. She might hope for one of the wandering knights of Bretonnia to arrive, but after seeing the examples of Bretonnia’s knighthood that Mousillon had presented her, she could hardly take comfort in that possibility either. In any event, time was running much too short. She had to act now.

  The Fell Fang. It was little more than a legend, a sorcerous device crafted long ago by disillusioned princes from the realm of Caledor. Caledor had once been the mightiest of the realms of Ulthuan, and the elf princes of that land had ridden to war upon the backs of their mighty allies, the dragons who dwelt in the mountains of Caledor.

  But over the ages, the dragons had fallen into deep slumber so that fewer and fewer of them would answer the call to battle and war. Some among the nobility of Caledor had resented the waning might of their realm that resulted from the long slumber of their allies. A faction had set out to restore their prestige by crafting sorcerous talismans that bound the sleeping dragons to their will, enslaving them and forcing them to rouse when their masters called upon them. But such a reckless and greedy use of magic had been deemed not only cruel and dangerous by the other princes of Caledor and the arch-mages of Saphery, but also a despicable act of treachery upon creatures who had been and still were the friends and allies of the elves. The disillusioned princes had been exiled, branded as the Grey Lords, never to set eyes upon the shores of Ulthuan again.

  Ithilweil had studied the great books of lore kept in the Tower of Hoeth in her native Ulthuan, and in one of those books she had learned of the Fell Fang. The thing that Gobineau had brought with him looked very much like it—too much so to be mere coincidence. One of the exiled Grey Lords must have made his home in the colonies that had once existed in the lands of Bretonnia, and he must also have continued his experiments with the dangerous sorcery he and his fellow renegades had proposed.

  Now Marimund had in his possession a device of such awful potency that he could not begin to appreciate it even if he understood what it was. The Fell Fang had been intended to enslave the dragon to which it was bound, but even the strongest willed of the Grey Lords had found such control beyond them. They could rouse the wyrms from their slumber, this much they had achieved, and they could even manage to communicate with the reptiles, their minds touching upon those of the ancient creatures in a spectral communion. But true control was beyond them, and the ire of the dragons when forced from their sleep had been a thing to bring nightmares even when dulled by centuries of memory. How much worse should it be were an unthinking, unknowing man call upon such forces without the slightest idea of what he did? An entire nation might burn if the dragon bound to the Fell Fang were to stir.

  There was another danger as well: Corbus, Marimund’s pet vampire. The undead knight had once been a noble and heroic example of his kind, if the history she had heard the monster speak was more than simple lies. Corbus had taken up the quest, riding across the green lands of Bretonnia, answering the challenges of man and monster as he found them, hoping that he might prove worthy enough to find the sacred grail of his land’s patron goddess, the Lady of the Lake. But in his quest, he had been brought low, his courage and valour proven to be wanting and unworthy. He had encountered a black-armoured knight in the shadows of a haunted forest. He had answered the rival knight’s challenge, and had contested his foe in combat for nearly an hour before his rival had struck him down. But the blessing of an honourable death was not to be for Sir Corbus. The other knight had removed his helm, revealing the pale features and elongated fangs of a vampire. Corbus had impressed the vampire enough that it had decided that he must share in its curse.

  Corbus had been inducted into the foul order of the Blood Dragons, a brotherhood of vampiric knights who existed by their own twisted code of honour, a perverse mockery of the chivalry and martial pride that had filled them in life. They existed only to find foes worthy enough to face them in combat, the search for ever greater challenges the only motivation in the dark and miserable midnight of their existence, despising and hating the loathsome, uncontrollable monsters they had become. Corbus had forsaken his quest, slinking to Mousillon, the city that had been cursed by Malford’s false grail, the only place in Bretonnia vile enough to endure the beast he had become. The vampire knight had found service with Duc Marimund, desperately clinging to the oaths of service and loyalty he had sworn to the nobleman as if they were the final bridge between the monster he was and the man he had been.

  But that would all change if Corbus were to find out what Marimund had. The vampire had not been there when Gobineau had told the duc what the artefact was and what it was reportedly able to do. Marimund himself had not believed the rogue’s wagging tongue, but Corbus would have. The Blood Dragon would have seized upon it with the same desperation a drowning man would a floating piece of wood. For there was a tradition, a myth common to the accursed order of vampire knights. If ever one of them should taste the fiery blood that flowed through the veins of a dragon, then that vampire would never again be stricken by the red thirst, never again feel the need to slake his unholy hunger upon the blood of the living. To achieve such a thing, Ithilweil knew, the vampire would do anything. He would be beyond anyone’s control, even the oaths he had sworn to Marimund would not restrain him if he thought that he might rid himself of his curse.

  No, Corbus would seize the Fell Fang and use it the instant he learned of it. Ithilweil shuddered as she considered what that might mean. The vampire would call up a monster that would be beyond its control, beyond anyone’s control, a monster that would seek out and destroy the fool that had called it, and anything else it found in the vicinity.

  She would have to trust that it was not already too late, that Corbus had not somehow learned what his master possessed and that Marimund himself had not been toying with the dread artefact.

  The trio continued to make their way through the narrow maze of corridors that led upwards from Marimund’s dungeons, past dingy cells and iron-doored storerooms and the faded tapestries that hung like mouldy cobwebs from the dank stone walls. Ithilweil had directed Brunner to the safest route, the one that held the least possibility of being patrolled at such a late hour. True to her word, the halls had been empty of life. Now if the path she had chosen to bring them to Marimund’s chambers was as easily achieved, Brunner would be extremely content.

  A sudden smell brought them to a stop. Ithilweil’s face contorted as the full reek struck her more discerning senses. Gobineau fell back a step, trying to place both the guard and the witch between himself and the corridor ahead. Brunner firmed his grip upon his sword, shooting a warning look at Gobineau as he stalked forward, reminding the rogue that whatever else might occur, he was not going to be forgotten.

  A short, dark shape shambled into view, the stink increasing as it did so. There was a gleam of steel in its hands, the razor-keen edge of a massive axe. Brunner shifted his stance so that he might be better able to address the difference in height should trouble occur.

  ‘Hand over that scum!’ the shape snarled. ‘Or I’ll see your heads lying on the floor!’

  ‘You’re late,’ Brunner replied. The dark shadow crooked its head, staring at the man who had spoken. A grim chuckle rolled from the dwarf.

&nbs
p; ‘I didn’t recognise you, Brunner,’ Ulgrin laughed. ‘A good disguise.’ The dwarf gestured with his axe at Gobineau. ‘I see you’ve saved me the trouble of fetching him.’

  The bounty hunter spun, kicking out with his leg as Gobineau braced himself to flee back down the hall. Brunner’s foot struck the rogue’s knee, spilling the prisoner to the floor amid a flurry of curses and snarls. He loomed over the prone man, the steel edge of his blade hovering near Gobineau’s throat.

  ‘He was playing nice until you gave the game away,’ Brunner snarled at the dwarf. ‘Now I’ll have to watch him twice as carefully.’ He leaned forward, letting the blade touch the soft skin of Gobineau’s neck. ‘Or we could just settle for the reward his head will bring.’ The rogue went pale as he heard Brunner’s words, balled fists opening into empty hands.

  ‘You know this disgusting creature?’ Ithilweil interrupted, her features trying to conceal the horror she felt as her senses were assailed by Ulgrin’s smell and filth-crusted appearance.

  ‘My partner,’ Brunner informed her. ‘Ulgrin Baleaxe, renowned dwarf huntsman and mercenary.’ Ithilweil stared even more intently at the muck-crusted figure. She’d read many accounts of the terrible war between her people and the stubbornly vindictive and irrational dwarfs, but had never actually seen one before. She rubbed at her nose as Ulgrin’s stink continued to assail her. She had never imagined them to be so disgusting, wallowing, it seemed, in their own filth. Suddenly, war between her people and these foul tunnel rats did not seem so tragic as inevitable. Indeed, she marvelled that there had ever been peace between her kind and such offences against nature.