Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  ‘Are you saying a dragon caused the cave-in?’ Ulgrin demanded. Ithilweil nodded her head in response.

  ‘By now, in its fury, it must have reduced Marimund’s entire castle to a pile of rubble,’ she stated. The two bounty hunters stared at Ithilweil, as though struggling to grasp the magnitude of the power her words bestowed upon this creature.

  ‘Then that’s the end of our hunt!’ Ulgrin snarled, smacking a fist against the tunnel wall. ‘Unless you have a few months to try and dig his bones out from under tons of rock.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Brunner told his partner. ‘But maybe not. Don’t forget, Gobineau was no friend of Marimund’s either. He wasn’t just trying to escape from us, but from the castle in general.’ The bounty hunter paused, considering his own words. ‘I think that with Marimund distracted by ourselves, our rather valuable friend might have gone a bit farther than we did.’

  Ulgrin’s eyes lit up as the possibility that Gobineau yet survived was presented to him. At the same time, Ithilweil’s expression became one of dread.

  ‘We must make certain,’ she declared. ‘We have to be sure he is dead.’ She looked deeply into the eyes of first Brunner and then Ulgrin Baleaxe. ‘Don’t you understand? If Gobineau is still alive, and he still has the Fell Fang, then this horror might occur again! Any time! Any place!’ Noting the stone cold expressions of both killers, Ithilweil’s voice became more imploring. ‘It might be one of your own cities next time! Your own people crushed beneath its feet or incinerated by its breath!’

  Brunner let the elf speak, then shook his head. ‘We’ll find Gobineau, dead or alive, but not for your reasons. This talisman that calls dragons is your concern, the price on Gobineau’s head is ours. As I said before, so long as you don’t get in the way, you’re welcome to tag along.’ The bounty hunter tossed aside the kettle helm that formed part of his guard’s disguise and replaced his own steel sallet helm over his features. Without further word, Brunner began to make his way forward once more. Ulgrin paused to regard Ithilweil for a moment before hurrying after his partner.

  ‘And don’t get any funny ideas about sharing the bounty!’ the dwarf growled. ‘The shares aren’t big enough the way things are, I’ll be a grobbi’s wet nurse if I’ll let ‘em shrink even more because of a tall-ear!’

  Duc Marimund was dying. With each breath, a fresh bubble of gore dripped from his chin. He could feel the broken wreckage of his ribs, the cracked ruin that had once been his pelvis. Every inch of the would-be ruler of Mousillon was agony. Crushed beneath the walls of his own fortress, the nobleman’s vision now swam, black and red dots flaring over the dust and rubble that reason told him he should see.

  Marimund could not imagine what could have been responsible for the destruction of his inviolate fortress. It had withstood storm and earthquake and even siege, but now, in less time than he would have believed possible, the castle had been stamped into ruin and all his dreams of power crushed along with it. Was this the judgement of the gods? Had he, far from being chosen by the Lady, been cursed by her? Was he in reality the evil heretic Malford rather than the legendary hero Landuin?

  Even as the mangled duc considered the renowned Landuin, first lord of Mousillon, his thoughts strayed to the mighty deeds the legendary knight had accomplished. And suddenly Marimund knew what force had destroyed him. Landuin had slain a dragon among the mighty feats of his long career. The adulterous wretch Gobineau had brought a strange old artefact with him, a device he claimed would call dragons to the one who wielded it. At once the nobleman recalled the horrific sound he had heard, or imagined that he had heard, a malefic roar bellowing behind the rumble of falling walls and collapsing floors. Marimund’s lip twisted into a sneer. So, Gobineau’s claim had been more than a frantic talltale to save his hide!

  A shape slowly manifested itself before him. Marimund’s vision flickered, but slowly he began to understand that the shape was that of a man, one of his knights. Sir Corbus was without his crimson armour now, clad only in a long wool shrift, his pale skin exposed. The knight’s face was a grotesque ruin, one eye socket expanded in a ghastly and hideous manner, one jaw blasted and broken by some terrible force. Still, despite his horrible injuries, Marimund’s most loyal follower had come for him. The nobleman tried to crawl toward his saviour but found that he could move only his left arm.

  Corbus stopped very near the trapped Marimund, staring down at him with a single, baleful eye. The vampire’s broken jaws worked to create a dry, hissing sort of speech.

  ‘You were speaking,’ the Blood Dragon said. Marimund closed his eyes, trying to remember. Had he been speaking? Was his delirium such that reason had flown from his tongue? The vampire leaned down, his hideously ruined face only inches from Marimund’s own. ‘Tell me more about this man who has the power to summon dragons.’

  Marimund blinked. Why should Corbus concern himself with such things when his lord and master was dying at his very feet? The nobleman opened his mouth to remind the knight of his oaths and vows, but staring into the burning eye of Corbus, Marimund felt his soul shudder. For the first time, the would-be lord of Mousillon understood just how abominable a creature he had allowed to take service with him. Instead of calling for the vampire’s help, the nobleman gasped out a name.

  ‘Gobineau,’ he said, bloody froth punctuating his words. Corbus smiled with what was left of his face. Gobineau. He had seen that wretch with the assassin and that traitor elf bitch in Marimund’s chambers. So, it was Gobineau who had this power, this ability to summon the mighty dragons of earth and sky. The vampire let a low hiss of expectancy and depraved lust slither through the wound in his throat. Finding the thief would be the first step towards the only salvation left for one of his diseased kind, the only way of ending his disgusting curse and redeeming his lost honour. Corbus looked back at the trapped Marimund.

  ‘Gobineau,’ the vampire repeated. ‘Thank you, Marimund,’ Corbus continued, speaking his former master’s name without hint of deference or respect. The vampire’s eye fixed upon the froth bubbling from the nobleman’s mouth. His long, wolf-like tongue flicked forth and licked his dagger-like fangs. ‘There is just one more thing you can do for me,’ Corbus whispered, leaning toward the trapped man so that he might feed.

  From the darkness of his bolt hole, Gobineau cast his eyes skyward, trying to pierce the haze of smoke and darkness for another glimpse of the awesome form that had descended out of the night. His body still shivered as he remembered the sight: the huge reptile, clad in its armour of crimson scales, borne aloft by its midnight wings. No fresh young wyrm, this mighty destroyer that had answered the rogue’s call, but a monster hoary with the crust of age and legend. Gobineau had been able to get a good look at the dragon as it rose from the rubble of Marimund’s castle, soaring low above the castle grounds and the surrounding district. It was enormous, its scales scarred and dulled by the relentless march of time. The gigantic drake bore the marks of its long and terrible life—a great patch of blackened flesh marked its left shoulder and the side of its neck. Along its side ran a deep trench-like scar, as though some titan had raked the tip of his sword along the dragon’s belly. Yet such old injuries did not seem to disturb or slow the malevolent creature as it rose into the night sky, its cruel yellow eyes scouring the landscape for the tiny fleeing figures that had scattered before its fury.

  Gobineau clasped the talisman a bit more tightly in his trembling fist. He had been lucky to have escaped what had followed. The dragon, snarling like a starving panther, had circled above the outskirts of Mousillon, watching the fleeing guards. Then it had opened its jaws, and a great sheet of flame had fallen upon the running men. They were turned into living torches by the intense fire, screaming brands that shrieked and howled as they continued to run. The dragon had hovered in the air, turning its horned head with almost bird-like motions as it focused upon isolated groups of men before reducing them into charred piles of burned flesh. Nor did the wyrm seem inclined to distinguish between the gua
rds flying from Marimund’s fortress and the desolate peasants its rampage flushed from their hovels. Even a jaded villain of such experience as Gobineau had covered his ears against the screams and shrieks that sought to drown out the crackle and hiss of flame.

  Then the dragon had turned its attention upon the miserable hovels themselves, raining its fiery exhalations upon them in a relentless fury. But in this, the dragon was somewhat thwarted, for the mouldering structures were damp with the rot carried to them from the swamp and they burned only with great reluctance. Only by concentrating its flame upon isolated structures could the dragon persuade them to collapse into heaps of cinder and ash, something the great wyrm quickly grew tired of. With a last malefic roar that rattled the teeth in Gobineau’s mouth, and a sideways glance to ensure that no other scurrying figures remained in the streets below, the dragon had wheeled away, rising back into the smoke and the fiery night sky. In its wake, it left a hundred burning bodies lying upon the streets and a dozen fires smouldering in the blackened ruins that had once surrounded Marimund’s fortress.

  Gobineau again thanked Ranald the Trickster for bestowing such good fortune upon him. As near as he could tell, he alone had escaped Marimund’s castle and the dragon’s wrath. Ducking into a small outhouse, the rogue had eluded the dragon’s keen eye, and so been spared the fiery death that had run rampant all around him.

  Then the bandit considered the talisman clutched in his hand. Perhaps it was more than luck? Perhaps the talisman had not only called the dragon, but protected him from the monster as well? Gobineau had certainly been desirous of seeing everyone in the castle destroyed—perhaps through the Fell Fang the dragon had sensed his wishes and simply acted upon them? Marimund, Brunner, neither of them would be troubling Gobineau on this side of Morr’s black kingdom, and Gobineau had the dragon to thank for such a boon.

  The power to call such a creature and have it obey his wishes! No wonder mad Rudol had tried to kill him for the artefact.

  Gobineau’s face split in a sly smile. This was a power beyond his wildest imaginings. It would take some careful thought to decide how best to exploit it. But already several interesting possibilities were stirring in the outlaw’s mind.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Leaving the cursed city of Mousillon proved a much easier task than entering it had. No mobs of desperate, violent wretches roamed the haunted streets, no packs of hungry ghouls prowled the alleys. Even the armed patrols of Mousillon’s decadent aristocrats seemed to be content to remain within the decaying castles of their masters. The city was as deserted as an open grave; only the croaking of vultures and the scuttling creep of rats disturbed the sepulchral silence that hung over the place.

  The cause of such fear that even the degenerate inhabitants of a place like Mousillon hid behind locked doors was easily discovered when the bounty hunters and their elf companion emerged from the dank sewage tunnel Ulgrin Baleaxe had discovered. The castle of Duc Marimund was now just a pile of rubble, three of its outer walls collapsed entirely as though the fist of an angry god had smashed the fortress flat. The blighted districts of rotting houses and shops that had surrounded Marimund’s stronghold were blackened and charred, scarred by a flame intense enough to prosper even in the mouldy swamp-tainted wood that prevailed in these environs. Dark silhouettes of bodies littered the cobbles of the streets, the only reminder left of men struck down by the all-consuming flames. The bounty hunters had resisted Ithilweil’s desperate, terrified insistence that Gobineau had called down the wrath of some ancient monster with the artefact she had called the Fell Fang. Then, confronted by the evidence of their own eyes, they had had no choice but to believe her.

  But there was little time to consider the desolation and the awesome power that had caused it. Every moment that passed put more distance between the hunters and their prey, if indeed Gobineau had been fortunate enough to escape the doom he had summoned. The assumption of his death, however, was not something Ithilweil was prepared to allow, nor one the bounty hunters preferred, for if the man was dead then he was either buried beneath the castle or one of the blackened lumps of slag sprawled upon the streets. In either case, there would be nothing to take back to Couronne for a reward.

  Though unchallenged in their passage through the streets, the trio of hunters were not alone. On occasion a furtive shape might be seen picking through the ruins, desperate avarice overcoming the fear that gripped most of the city. Some of these fled at the approach of Brunner and his companions, others defiantly stood their ground, determined to protect whatever garbage they had discovered. The promise of a few copper coins or a glowering threat rumbling from Ulgrin’s harsh mouth bought information from these wretches. Some had seen the fall of Marimund’s fortress and described in exacting detail the horrific monster that had brought about such carnage. A few, at the prompting of Ithilweil, recalled the handsome rogue they had seen slinking away from the castle after the dragon had passed. They pointed with grimy fingers toward the south and the outer walls of the city. Brunner was not surprised. Freed from Marimund’s dungeons, there was nothing to keep their quarry in Mousillon any longer.

  Brunner insisted on checking every hovel and farmstead they came upon once they themselves were quit of the city. He knew that a man like Gobineau would not remain without a horse for long. Learning how near to the city he had been able to steal one would give them some idea as to how much of a lead the outlaw had on them. It was also of little surprise that the bandit had stolen the first animal he had come upon, a miserable old plough horse that represented the only possession of worth for its grey-headed owner. Reaching the farm where Brunner had stabled his own horses and the dappled mule Ulgrin rode, the bounty hunter paid a half dozen pieces of silver to secure a mare for Ithilweil, again earning a surly reminder from Ulgrin that the elf would not be taking any part of his own share in the reward.

  It was not long before they were once again travelling the road leading south. Brunner was of the opinion that their nefarious quarry might be seeking refuge within one of the small pirate communities that could be found nuzzled amid the rocky shores of Aquitaine and Brionne.

  But the keen eyes of Ithilweil caused Brunner to reconsider his thoughts when, on their first day out from Mousillon, the elf detected a black spiral of smoke rising in the east.

  ‘It could be anything,’ Ulgrin snarled. ‘Some damn fool peasant setting fire to his hut, or maybe some nobleman removing an unsightly wood from his domain.’

  ‘Or, more likely the beast is on the prowl,’ Ithilweil replied, her tone sharp. The dwarf had baited her remorselessly throughout their journey and even her patience was coming to an end.

  ‘You think our friend might be there?’ Brunner asked. There was no question in his mind that Ithilweil had the right of it, that the smoke she saw was likely related to the dragon. The enchantress shook her head.

  ‘Perhaps, if he is fool enough to use the Fell Fang again,’ she replied. Brunner nodded, turning Fiend’s head so that the horse began to head across a field that bordered the road. Ulgrin noted the action, sputtering a protest.

  ‘You can’t simply ride off on this tall-eared harpy’s say-so!’ the dwarf yelled. ‘We don’t know that the dragon caused that fire, or that Gobineau is idiot enough to go chasing after such a monster!’

  ‘Please yourself,’ Brunner called back to Ulgrin. ‘But I think Ithilweil may be right. I think Gobineau did call that thing to Mousillon, and I’m betting two thousand in gold that where the brute is, Gobineau won’t be far away.’ Without any further word, the bounty hunter turned and continued to ride eastward, his packhorse trailing behind. Ithilweil indulged in a smug smile thrown in Ulgrin’s direction before riding forward to join Brunner.

  ‘Two thousand gold,’ the dwarf grumbled. ‘That bastard forgets a thousand of that is mine!’ Ulgrin dug his heels into his mule, urging the animal to keep up with the others.

  Night found the hunters encamped within the ruins of an old farmhouse. It seemed tha
t the caprices of storm and snow had doomed the structure rather than the ire of a giant fire-spewing reptile, and it had been many seasons since anything larger than a squirrel had called the roofless remains home. It made a decent enough shelter, providing defensible barriers should trouble present itself. The lands of Bretonnia were not without their predators. It was not unknown for wolves to become famished enough to try their paw at human prey and the grey wild cat of central Bretonnia, a beast almost as large as a small stag, was well known for a taste for horseflesh. And, of course, there was always the threat of human predators. The knights of Bretonnia were not so widespread and all powerful as to completely eradicate the bandits and highwaymen common to other, less chivalrous, lands.

  Ithilweil turned away from her contemplation of the darkening landscape. To her elven eyes, the starlight served her almost as well as that of the sun, allowing her to watch the owl as it swooped down upon the field mouse, to observe the fox as it silently padded along a rocky outcrop. Only to the north-east was her vision obscured, denied by the thick blackness that told her they were nearing the carnage she had spotted many hours before. The warm breeze that picked at her garments and rustled through her hair carried with it the faint suggestion of the same acrid musk they had smelled about the ruins of Marimund’s fortress: the sickly stink of dragon.

  The elf shuddered. The beast was near, so very near that she could almost imagine its eyes watching her from the darkness, its ancient, evil soul contemplating her with a cold, unfathomable regard. She had listened well to those terrified wretches they had come upon during their exodus from Mousillon, and she had shared in that terror. They had good reason to know fear, for Ithilweil knew the name of the beast Gobineau had aroused, and knew its awful history.

  Ithilweil turned back to the camp, stepping back toward the campfires Brunner and Ulgrin had set. The dwarf was crouched beside his flame, roasting a skinned squirrel. The dwarf had set his own camp at the far end of the ruin, as far from Brunner and Ithilweil as he could manage, even keeping his mule with him, as though it might become infected were it to linger near the elf’s mare.