Brunner the Bounty Hunter

by C. L. Werner

  ‘Quite an appetite that lizard has,’ Ulgrin commented, but even his jest was half-hearted, voiced to try and fend away the dread that was building within the normally stalwart dwarf.

  They did not linger long in the valley, following still more distant columns of smoke rising in the east. For the rest of the day, the three hunters found themselves journeying from one scene of tragedy and ruin to another. Here a farmstead blasted into a crater, there an orchard, its trees stripped and barren in the aftermath of the dragon’s flame. Once, they came upon what seemed to be a knight sitting beside the road. Ithilweil had dismounted to investigate the man when he did not respond to Ulgrin’s hail. She would not speak of what lay behind the knight’s visor when she lifted it, saying only that the warrior was dead.

  They made camp that night beside a narrow gorge overlooking the River Grismerie. Brunner selected the ground because it made a good defensible position, the severe drop effectively forming a bulwark against attack from the south and the west. Unless of course the attacker were able to fly, such as a dragon. Of course, if that were the case, Brunner knew firsthand that even a castle was no stronghold against such a creature.

  Ithilweil again stared out into the night, as though trying to cast her gaze far enough to see the creature whose tracks they followed. There was no faint glow upon the horizon, no thick pall of smoke marring the night wind. Ithilweil took that to mean that the dragon had settled down somewhere, perhaps resting after indulging its lust for destruction. But she knew that it would only be a matter of time before the wyrm roused itself once more and the fires burned anew.

  ‘Ithilweil.’ The elf turned as she heard Brunner call out her name. The bounty hunter was seated before the fire, still wearing his armour and weapons, having removed only his helmet. Nearby, Ulgrin sat on a mossy stone, chewing nervously at the pipe protruding from his beard. ‘You gave a name to this monster. What more can you tell me about it? If Gobineau decides to call on it again, I’d like to know as much as possible about what we will be facing.’

  The elf glided across the campsite, sitting upon the ground beside the fire. ‘Much of what I know about him is rumour, the rest speculation.’ Ithilweil paused, collecting her thoughts. ‘The dragon is named Malok, a name that is heaped with horror and suffering.’

  ‘Bah! Malok is known to my people as well!’ interrupted Ulgrin. ‘The name itself is from the old Khazalid. It means “malice”, and you’ll find that there is an entire page in the Book of Grudges with that gold-stealing lizard’s name upon it!’

  ‘Perhaps he had another name in the tongue of my people,’ Ithilweil said, ‘but if so, that given to him by the dwarfs soon displaced it. It is known that when war broke out between my people and the dwarfs,’ the elf paused, expecting some surly outburst from Ulgrin, but he remained silent, ‘the dragon served a prince of my people who had settled in the lands now known as the Grey Mountains. I can now imagine how that prince caused Malok to serve him, for surely he was one of the exiled renegade lords of Caledor.’

  ‘It would figure that there would be elf sorcery at the back of all this.’ Ulgrin grunted, spitting a blob of spittle into the fire.

  ‘Then this prince was the one who created the Fell Fang?’ Brunner asked.

  ‘Or had it made for him.’ Ithilweil said. ‘But it would have been his will that made the artefact work, the strength of his own soul that bound the dragon to him. The Fell Fangs are terrible things, dominating the spirit of one creature by crushing it with the will of another. That was why they were denounced by the rulers of Ulthuan. And they are dangerous, even for the most strong-willed, for control is never assured. It is easier, less taxing to force a dragon to do something that is in its nature, but far more difficult to subdue its own urges. There was also speculation that the imposing of spirits might not be a one-way door as the Fell Fang was designed to be. It might be possible for the dragon’s fiery spirit to bleed over into the body of the one using the artefact. In any case, control is tenuous at best, and once lost, the ire of the dragon will focus itself upon the possessor of the Fell Fang. For it will be able to sense the exact location of the Fang’s user, however great the distance.’

  ‘So, our reptilian friend might have had a fair journey when Gobineau called him to Mousillon,’ Brunner observed. ‘But next time the dragon will be closer, have less distance to travel and be there much sooner.’

  ‘Yes.’ agreed the elf. ‘Without a powerful will to restrain him, Malok will find the Fell Fang, kill the one using it and probably level everything within a hundred miles. There are few among even the oldest and noblest of my people who would be able to restrain a creature like Malok, for his power and malevolence can only have increased through the ages. Among men, I don’t think such strength exists. I am certain that if it does, it is not nestled within the avaricious dung heap that your Gobineau employs as his soul.’

  ‘Leave it to elves to create something anybody can use but nobody can control!’ Ulgrin swore, spitting again into the fire.

  ‘What I still do not understand,’ Brunner said, ‘is how this elf prince ever lost control of Malok.’

  ‘He used Malok against the dwarfs when there was war between our two peoples.’ Ithilweil replied. ‘The scars that so easily identify the wyrm were given to him during that conflict as the prince drove him against his enemies. The wound along Malok’s belly was earned when the shaft hurled by a dwarf bolt thrower nearly skewered the dragon during the battle of Ilendril’s Hill. Such was the potency of whatever runes the dwarf smiths placed upon the enormous spear that even a dragon, centuries later, still bears the scar. The other wound was inflicted during the scourging of the dwarf stronghold our chronicles named “Iron Peak”, a jagged bolt of sorcerous lightning called down upon Malok by the high priest of the dwarfs.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Ulgrin, ‘and well do we dwarfs remember that day, when the elf’s pet monster gobbled up one of the oldest and wisest runesmiths in the kingdom.’ Ulgrin ground his teeth together. ‘That’s a crime both the dragon and those who set him upon us will answer for one day.’

  ‘But that still does not tell me how and why they lost control of the dragon,’ Brunner interrupted, hoping to stem the brewing argument between elf and dwarf.

  ‘It was decided to abandon the war after the Phoenix King was slain at Tor Alessi,’ the enchantress stated. ‘The war with the dwarfs was taking too high a toll, the killing far too senseless to endure any longer. It was decided to abandon the colonies, to return to Ulthuan. A great exodus of my people left the towered palaces and shining cities they had built for themselves here, to board the ships that would carry them back to the lands of their birth. The elf prince who controlled Malok charged his monster with guarding and watching over his people as they marched toward the shore. But protection and preservation was not a thing that came easily to Malok; the dragon longed to kill and destroy, as he had when waging war against the dwarfs. The ordeal of restraining Malok’s rebellion would have taxed the prince day and night, until at last his control was lost. There is a tremendous pride within the fiery heart of a dragon, and Malok must have despised sharing in the stigma of the retreat. Perhaps it was this injured pride that at last enabled him to overcome the control of the Fell Fang. However it came about, Malok slew his master and then set about destroying every elf he could find, raining fire down upon the weary refugees as they slowly crept toward the sea.’

  ‘Then at least the old lizard did some good,’ Ulgrin muttered, clearly less than sympathetic to Ithilweil’s tale of woe. ‘Perhaps the records in the Book of Grudges are a bit too harsh on him.’

  ‘It sounds to me as if this Fell Fang is more of a curse than a blessing,’ Brunner observed. ‘We may just be doing Gobineau a service by relieving him of it.’ The bounty hunter stopped speaking as Ithilweil suddenly shot to her feet, frightened eyes scouring the darkness beyond the campfire. Brunner had enough experience with the sharp senses of the elves to know better than to question them. In
an instant, he too was on his feet, the cruel length of Drakesmalice in his hand. A moment later, the horses and Ulgrin’s mule began to stamp their hooves and voice their own unease as some faint scent offended them.

  Ulgrin rose slowly, a sturdy hand axe gripped in each of his meaty fists. ‘Any idea what has the animals upset?’ the dwarf asked from the corner of his mouth. ‘You don’t think the lizard is hungry again?’ he added in a subdued tone.

  ‘No,’ Ithilweil told him, ‘but what is waiting out there in the night is just as much an abomination.’ Brunner noticed the familiar quality of fear and loathing that edged the elf’s voice. Shifting his grip on his sword, the bounty hunter lowered his left hand, unobtrusively palming a small object secreted beneath his vambrace.

  A tall figure stalked out from the shadows. The intruder’s heavy steps crunched into the dirt, betraying the fact that heavy armour pressed down upon his steel-shod feet. The faint smell that had alarmed the animals grew more pronounced, rising to such a stink that it carried itself to the much less discerning senses of Brunner and Ulgrin. It was a smell both warriors had encountered many times before—the rank stink of death, the vapour of an old battlefield. Both bounty hunters stepped closer to the fire, careful to keep their eyes averted from the flame and ruining their night vision. By degrees, a single baleful eye could be seen, twinkling from the dark shape as it reflected the fire, cat-like.

  ‘A fine tale you spin,’ a fell, pustulent voice hissed from the darkness, ‘for a faithless elf slut!’ Ithilweil visibly flinched as she heard the grotesquely distorted yet sickeningly familiar and hated voice. ‘You said much that interested me,’ the vampire continued. ‘Enough so that I would have a few questions answered before I rip that lying tongue from your pretty face!’

  ‘Corbus!’ Ithilweil breathed with horror. The enchantress retreated slowly, retracing her steps so that she stood beside Brunner. The bounty hunter took a step forward, lifting Drakesmalice so that the blade interposed itself between the enchantress and the vampire.

  ‘There is reason enough for me to spill your life,’ Corbus growled at Brunner.

  The vampire knight strode into the circle of light cast by the campfire. Ithilweil gasped in shock as she saw the vampire’s mutilated face. A pulpy mass of pus-hued filth was beginning to fill the warped, ruined socket, raw lengths of tendon and muscle had begun to reattach themselves to the vampire’s shattered jaw.

  The vampire smiled, displaying his fangs and further distorting his already mangled features. ‘It will take many nights feasting on the thin blood of peasants to restore my face,’ Corbus spat. ‘How will you fare after I peel yours from your skull, assassin?’

  Brunner kept silent, evaluating the foul knight of the Blood Dragons. Despite the hideous injury to his face, Corbus moved with a grace and strength that would put a professional dancer to shame, and he did so wearing a suit of heavy crimson plate armour that might have been the twin to that destroyed by Ulgrin’s battleaxe. The thick Bretonnian broadsword clutched in the vampire’s mailed fist was held against the creature’s side, but Brunner was not deceived. He had seen the monster in action before and knew that with his inhuman speed, the vampire’s unguarded pose was nothing more than an illusion.

  ‘Kill him slowly, Brunner,’ Ulgrin snarled. ‘That scum owes me a battleaxe!’ Despite the dwarfs bravado, Brunner noted that his fellow bounty killer was steadily backing away from the approaching vampire. He could not be certain if the dwarf was intent on his gear, intent on equipping himself with something more imposing than a hand axe, or if his mule and a speedy departure was Ulgrin’s intention. The bounty hunter was unwilling to turn his gaze from Corbus long enough to make certain.

  ‘Your filthy blood is not even worth taking,’ Corbus hissed at the dwarf. ‘Had you kept that foul tongue silent, I might even have allowed you to continue to defile the ground upon which you walk. Now I shall simply gut you like the vermin you are.’ The vampire’s burning eye turned away from Ulgrin, staring past Brunner at the enchantress sheltering behind him. ‘From you I will hear more of this man who calls dragons. I am most eager to meet him.’

  ‘The only one you meet this night is Morr!’ Brunner roared, lunging forward, slashing at the vampire with the edge of Drakesmalice. With almost contemptuous ease, Corbus blocked the blow, the strength of the vampire’s arm causing the bounty hunter’s longsword to tremble. With his sword grinding against Brunner’s own, the Blood Dragon’s other hand closed about the bounty hunter’s throat, undead talons clasping living flesh with a clutch of steel.

  ‘You should have stuck to your tricks, assassin,’ the vampire snarled. Corbus’s jaw cracked as the vampire’s mouth snapped open, far beyond the limits imposed upon it in life. The gleaming, wolf-like fangs shone like polished ivory in the flickering firelight as Corbus brought his ruined face toward Brunner’s exposed neck.

  ‘Who says I gave up my tricks?’ Brunner managed to choke beneath the vampire’s grasp. His left hand flashed forward, a white cloud billowing about the mutilated half of Corbus’s face. An earpiercing shriek erupted from the vampire’s mouth as the creature recoiled, dropping Brunner to the ground. Greasy grey smoke steamed from the Blood Dragon’s injuries, carrying with it the reek of burning meat. Brunner did not pause to recover from the vampire’s brutal grip, instantly lunging forward, swiping at the monster with Drakesmalice even as his other hand removed an object from his belt.

  Even in the midst of his agony, the skills and instincts of the lifelong warrior exerted themselves and Corbus brought his own sword around in a parrying stroke that easily batted Brunner’s blade aside. But with one hand still clutching at the sizzling wreckage of his face, Corbus left his other side exposed. The bounty hunter had put little force behind his feint with Drakesmalice, saving his energy for the true attack. The polished length of the wooden stake he had bought from a disgraced priest of Sigmar in the Tilean port of Miragliano dug into the vampire’s side, sinking into the gap between the breast and back plates. The vampire shrieked again as Brunner drove the stake into his unclean flesh. The bounty hunter danced backward as Corbus lashed out at him with an ungainly slash from his broadsword.

  The Blood Dragon staggered back, gasping and snarling as he fought against the pain assailing him. Corbus glared at the bounty hunter, his single remaining eye boring into Brunner’s own. Then the undead knight lifted his broadsword once more, holding it as though it were a lightweight javelin being readied for a cast. Brunner’s hand hovered near the butt of his pistol. He would have no chance of matching the speed of the vampire, but if the creature was as pained as it seemed to be, he might be able to exceed it in the matter of accuracy.

  A loud crack and roar from the other side of the camp decided the question. Before Corbus could hurl his sword, the vampire was thrown back, his breastplate exploding as an iron bullet smashed into it. Having backed to the far side of the camp, the vampire was fortuitously poised near the edge of the gorge. The impact of the bullet was enough to knock him over the side. The vampires wail of frustrated rage echoed from below as he plummeted down toward the banks of the Grismerie.

  Brunner turned to find Ulgrin Baleaxe sitting on the ground, smoke rising from the wide-barrelled mouth of his huge rifle, a dwarf weapon known as a thunderer for the imposing noise its discharge created. The recoil from the weapon had knocked Ulgrin from his feet, landing him on his backside. The dwarf grumbled into his beard as he struggled to regain his dignity.

  ‘Five gold crowns for the cost of powder, shot, and accuracy,’ Ulgrin declared once he was on his feet again. ‘To come from your share of the reward, naturally.’

  Brunner shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he told the dwarf. ‘Your throat would have been next on his list. Chalk it down to the cost of staying alive.’

  Ulgrin snickered, leaning on the broad mouth of his weapon, then recoiling when he found it to still be hot. ‘You don’t get me that easy,’ he said. ‘That bloodsucker would have been after tall-ears nex
t. More than enough time for me to slip away if I was of a mind to.’

  Mention of Ithilweil caused Brunner to look back at the elf. She still stood in the same spot to which she had retreated to avail herself of Brunner’s protecting sword. As the bounty hunter stepped nearer, he could see the unfocused glaze in her eyes, hear the faint, musical words whispering through her lips. Carefully, Brunner reached forward, placing his hand on the elf’s shoulder. Instantly, the melody stopped and Ithilweil’s eyes regained their normal vibrancy.

  ‘Thank you,’ the bounty hunter told her, guessing at the purpose of her incantation. It had been more than pain dulling the vampire’s unnatural speed and reflexes.

  Ithilweil took several deep breaths, trying to restore her composure after her hasty spellcraft.

  ‘It is always dangerous to draw upon the winds of magic when the sun is past and the dark powers are in their ascendancy,’ she stated. ‘But to allow you to be slain by that abomination would have been worse.’ She gave Brunner an approving look. ‘That was a clever trick, hurling salt into that monster’s face.’