by Warhammer
Not only had Brega's situation changed, his surroundings had as well. The cabin and its clearing, indeed the entire forest, were no small distance behind them. Brega could see the monstrous slopes of the Vaults towering before him. The terrain was hilly and rocky, the path upon which their animals marched little more than a game trail. Brega could see traces of worked stone lying toppled among the raw boulders scattered along the side of the trail. They were halfformed columns and unfinished faces, abandoned long ago to the mercy of rain and wind.
The bounty hunter turned his head and stared at his prisoner. The black steel of his helmet nodded in satisfaction.
'Good to see you're coming around,' the cold voice said. 'I was afraid that I might have hit you too hard. You're no good to me dead.'
The chill manner in which the bounty hunter voiced this twisted parody of concern caused Brega's heart to skip a beat. The smuggler mumbled a feeble prayer to Ranald under his breath. More loudly he said: 'I have done nothing! I was set upon by bandits and thought you to be my rescuer! My family is poor, they cannot afford to pay you a ransom.'
Brunner laughed, a dry chuckle that was as menacing as the snarl of a rabid wolf. 'Perhaps, but Judge Vaulkberg has deep pockets. Deep enough to satisfy me.'
The bounty hunter's words caused Brega to moan with despair. Judge Vaulkberg! The most notorious magistrate in the Empire, infamous for his harsh judgements and wanton cruelty. There was a tale that he had once ordered that a priestess of Verena's lips be branded with a heated iron for speaking out against the execution of a man who failed to doff his cap in Vaulkberg's courtroom. And that had been one of Vaulkberg's more lenient judgements. More often he set his ogre executioner to cause limbs to bend in unusual ways.
'You are mistaken!' Brega declared.
The bounty hunter twisted about in his saddle, fixing him with a cold stare.
'I don't make mistakes,' Brunner said. 'You are Bruno Brega, a petty smuggler. You usually operate moving black lotus on the Upper Reik, when you are not sneaking grain past the Emperor's excise men in Altdorf.'
The smuggler's head sagged back down against the side of his horse. He knew that any feeble attempt to convince the bounty hunter that he had the wrong man would not work. Ahead of him, the hired killer chuckled.
'I know all about you, Brega,' Brunner stated. 'I came all the way from Altdorf to look for you.' The bounty hunter laughed again. 'Ordinarily I wouldn't cross a county for a reptile like you, but Vaulkberg's put a very pretty price on your head, a very pretty price. It seems that last cargo of beef you smuggled into the capital was tainted, corrupt. It also seems that Vaulkberg's mistress ate some of it and died. The judge has spent quite a few lonely nights thinking about what he wants to do to you.'
Brega stifled a sob of horror. Judge Vaulkberg was a cruel, sadistic fiend when he was in good humour. The smuggler didn't even want to think what he would be like angry.
'I have hidden quite a bit of money,' Brega let the words hastily slip from his lips. 'I can pay you well!' The bounty hunter shot the smuggler a withering glare from behind his visor.
'When I accept a commission, I see it through,' he snarled. 'If you offer me money again before we get to the Reikland, I'll stuff a gag in that scheming mouth of yours. And that might make eating a bit difficult.'
Brega bit down any reply. He didn't really want to find out whether the bounty hunter was bluffing. Instead he looked past Brunner, casting his gaze toward the towering peaks of the Vaults. Unlike most of the teeming masses of humanity, Brega could read a map, and had seen them on many occasions. Knowing where one was and where one was going was vital for a smuggler. But that knowledge brought home a frightening realisation. Brunner meant to take him back to the Empire, to the Reikland. There was only one problem with that, and Brega was looking at it.
The Old World was divided by a series of mighty mountain ranges. The Apuccinis formed the eastern boundary of Tilea, separating the merchant princes and their holdings from the lawless Borderlands. The Irranas, marking the northern limit of Tilea, acted as a barrier between the city states and the kingdom of Bretonnia. Running northward, the legend-haunted Grey Mountains, the fence between the Empire and Bretonnia.
The Black Mountains formed the southern border of the domain of Karl-Franz; it was the Empire's rocky wall that kept out the orcs of the Badlands. Each of these ranges stretched for hundreds of miles, uncrossable save for a handful of closely guarded passes.
All four of these massive formations met in the north-east corner of Tilea, crashing together in a vast, titanic upland known as the Vaults. It was an impenetrable region of towering rock larger than the entire Plain of Luccini. Some of the Irranas and the Apuccinis reached heights of ten thousand feet and more. Amidst the Black and Grey Mountains, there were peaks that exceeded fifteen thousand feet. Even the tallest of these was a mere hill compared to the peaks of the Vaults. They loomed above the converging ranges like giants, the smallest of their number near the twenty thousand foot mark. The tallest were nearly five thousand feet higher still. Only the World's Edge range could boast loftier heights in all the Old World.
The peaks of the Vaults were perpetually shrouded in snow. Even in the most sweltering Tilean summer, the ice held its grip upon the uppermost slopes. The mountains were steep, jagged and twisted like the fangs of some gargantuan rock daemon. Deep crevices wormed their way amongst them, their depths unknown and unknowable. Even the most reckless of mountain explorers had not dared the inner reaches of the Vaults, for they understood that the giant formations of stone and earth did not offer adventure and discovery, only the promise of a lonely death.
'You're taking me to the Reikland?' Brega asked, a new tone of horror creeping into his voice.
'Worked that out on your own, did you?' Brunner replied, without turning to look at his prisoner.
'But the Vaults!' exclaimed the smuggler. 'Surely you can't mean to cross the Vaults?' The bounty killer did not reply. Terror welled up within Brega. 'You can't cross the mountains! Even if we don't get eaten by beasts or orcs, there isn't a path through them! We'd freeze on the high slopes, or plummet into a crevasse! You can't go over the mountains!'
Brunner twisted around in the saddle. 'Who said that we are going over them?'
Four grimy men sat in the darkened interior of a long unused cabin. Two of them pulled heavy cloaks tighter about their bodies as the cold night wind slithered between the gaps in the log walls. One of them despondently tended the small fire that had been made in the shallow pit at the centre of the cabin.
'Such valiant scum I keep company with,' snorted Sollima. He cast a surly look at his comrades. 'Let that vermin just swoop in and steal Brega right out from under us!' He placed a finger against his gruesome nose. 'From right under our very noses!'
'I didn't see you standing your ground after he killed Nuccio!' snarled the man tending the fire.
'I was too busy chasing the coat tails of my very brave friends!' spat Sollima.
'Call me a coward again, you rat, and I'll take the rest of your nose!' grumbled the fire-stoker, his grimy hand falling to the sword at his side.
The other two smugglers shrugged free of their cloaks to draw their swords. The older of the two, whose head was encased in a steel helmet, moved between the arguing men.
'Settle down, both of you!' he ordered. We should be thinking how to get Brega back, not trying to kill one another!'
'And who elected you boss?' snapped Sollima. The smuggler beside the fire pulled his sword free from its sheath.
'I've had my fill of the lot of you!' the fire-stoker growled through his beard. 'I'll get him on my own, and I can guarantee Brega will spill what he knows when I get my hands on him!'
'And you think you'll be able to kill that bounty hunter on your own, do you?' scoffed the helmeted smuggler. 'Think a bit of slink and strike will work on his sort?'
The companion of the helmeted smuggler worked his grimy hand toward the hilt of the dagger on his belt, p
repared to back whatever play for leadership his friend was about to make. As he did so, he noticed a peculiar and foul odour. He glanced toward the open doorway of the cabin, grimacing at the thick animal stench coming from that direction. He wondered what sort of animal had slunk its way past the thin curtain of hide covering the doorway, and hoped that it was not a rat or some equally noxious creature. The growing ire of the other smugglers, however, quickly drew his attention from the vile smell and whatever bore it.
'I suppose you have a better idea?' hissed Sollima.
'As a matter of fact-' the smuggler began to reply. But his words trailed off into a dry rasp as a shaft of wood blossomed from his breast, red feathers turning a deeper shade of crimson as the smuggler's lifeblood engulfed them. The man fell, dropping his sword from nerveless fingers. His helmet rolled away as his body struck the earthen floor.
The other rogues sprang into action. The smuggler at the fire sprang away from the pit, seeking the safety of the shadows. Sollima dived for his gear, hastily retrieving a small wooden shield. No sooner had he gained the shield than an arrow thudded into it, the force of the impact causing him to fall onto his back.
The last smuggler ran for the door of the cabin, sparing no thought for his comrades. All he wanted was to put as much distance as he could between himself and the thing that had set upon them. His cowardice marked him as the second to die. As he ran for the door, a figure rose from the shadows near the portal. It was indistinct, with only a vague suggestion of a human form. The smuggler could see a bow gripped in one of its hands. The other struck out at him. He had a moment to feel fingers of steel close about his throat. His remaining seconds of life were nothing but pain.
The stricken smuggler stumbled back into the centre of the cabin, hands clamped about the gory weeping hole beneath his jaw, torn tissue trying to give voice to his silent scream. The dying man stumbled into the pit, toppling into the flames. For a moment, he tried to pull himself out, but didn't have enough strength to do so. His clutching fingers finally grew still as the life faded from his body.
Sollima and the bearded smuggler watched their comrade's demise. Both men gave a yelp of fright as a gory object was tossed into the area illuminated by the fire. It landed beside the dead smuggler's arm. It was his throat.
Their attacker strode forward, its movements peculiar and inhuman. An animal reek overwhelmed even the stink of burning flesh rising from the fire pit.
Eerie eyes stared from the black shadow of its head, reflecting the flickering light of the fire with an orange luminosity. It was roughly human in shape, shrouded in a hooded garment cast about its shoulders. As the two smugglers watched, their shadowy attacker drew a curved sword from a scabbard on its belt.
'I have questions,' the shadow spoke in a terrifying rasping croak. 'You will answer them for me.' The thing stepped further into the light, allowing the two men to see its twisted form. Its head swept from side to side, fixing each of the men with its ghastly gaze, despite the darkness. 'You will tell me everything,' the rasping voice gurgled, 'before you die.'
With a snarl of his own, the bearded smuggler fired his crossbow at the monster. The shape dropped to a crouch with impossible speed and the bolt whistled over its cowled head. Before the man could reload, the shape sprang up and leapt forward like a pouncing tiger. Sollima could not see the creature any longer, as it disappeared into the patch of darkness the other smuggler was hiding in. But he could hear what ensued. The sound of screams. The sound of tearing cloth. The sound of flesh being ripped from bone.
Orange eyes gleamed at Sollima from the shadows. The smuggler watched as the creature walked back into the light. Blood covered its arms and dripped from its hands. It gestured toward Sollima with its unbloodied sword. The smuggler cringed backwards, his back crushed against the timber wall.
'You are dead,' the creature hissed. 'Slow or long, it is your choice how you die. Choose quickly.'
Sollima gave a shriek of fright, throwing his sword and shield away. He scrambled forward, dropping to his hands and knees as he entered the circle of light. Tears of terror dripped from his eyes, and inarticulate sobs escaped from his chest.
'Please,' he gasped between sobbing breaths. 'I'll tell you whatever you want! Don't kill me!'
The shadow bent down over the weeping smuggler. One of its malformed hands closed about the man's chin, forcing his face upward. The other wiped away the man's tears, leaving smears of blood as it removed the watery trails. The orange eyes burned from the shadows of the hood.
'Tell me, little rabbit,' the rasping gurgle croaked. 'Where is Bruno Brega?'
The shadow was as immobile as a statue. Between choking sobs, Sollima related what had befallen them, how they had captured their former leader only to lose him to the armoured bounty hunter. When the smuggler had finished his story, the shadow made a strange, dry sound like the yapping of a parched jackal.
'Brunner,' the shape chuckled. 'You think to take my merchandise to market.' Another bestial laugh hissed from the grim shadow. 'I think not. I've followed your scent before.' Orange eyes fixed their gaze upon the cringeing, pitiful man at the shadow's feet.
'You've done well to tell me this,' the shadow croaked. 'But it is best that I ensure the truth of your words.' Sollima gave another squeal of fright as the hand on his chin closed about his lower jaw, crushing the bone with a grasp as strong as steel. He squirmed in agony, batting ineffectually at the hand that held him. His thrashings became still more desperate as he saw the shadow remove a small hollow tube of metal from its clothing.
'You've been deceived, little rabbit,' the shadow hissed, firming its grip upon the metal implement. 'You have no choice in how you die.'
'Under the mountains,' Brega mumbled to himself for the hundredth time as Brunner led the horses along a narrow deer run that wove its way through the tall, imposing pines that had surrounded them for the past two days. Since they had resumed their journey after their camp on the first night, the bounty hunter had at least allowed him to sit upright on his horse. It was some small comfort not to be lugged about like a sack of grain. The smuggler straightened himself up in the saddle, and sneered down at the bounty hunter as he walked ahead of his mount, the massive bay, Fiend. 'You know, you have quite a reputation,' he said. 'But I had never heard that you were mad!'
Brunner did not deign to reply, intent upon the meagre trail ahead. Suddenly, the bounty hunter turned his head, staring off into the woods. Behind him, Brega stiffened - cold fear ran through his body. What had the killer heard, he wondered? Bound as he was, Brega would be defenceless if they were attacked. And in the wild and forsaken foothills at the base of the Vaults, anything could be stalking the forest. 'What is it?' Brega demanded, his voice somewhat shrill. 'What did you hear?'
'Nothing,' replied the bounty hunter, stalking back to Brega's steed. Brunner grabbed the smuggler about the waist and roughly shoved him from the saddle. Brega crashed to earth, landing hard in a patch of ferns. Groans of pain emanated from the man. Brunner ignored them. He strode over to the fallen thief and pulled him to his feet.
'What are you doing?' Brega groaned. Suddenly a vile odour, like an army's privy, washed over them both.
'Hunting,' the bounty hunter responded, drawing a black powder pistol from its belly holster. With his other hand, he grabbed the rope binding Brega's hands together. 'You're going to help me.'
Without another word, Brunner strode from the trail, dragging the protesting smuggler behind him.
The foul stink grew as Brunner led Brega deeper into the forest. Brega corrected himself: it was more like the stench of an enormous army privy. He was amazed that anything could grow in such an atmosphere, that the leaves on the ferns and bushes hadn't curled up and died from being immersed in such a vile miasma. His fear increased as the bounty hunter continued onwards. There could be no question, he was heading toward the source of the smell. Brega trembled as he contemplated the manner of hideous charnel that might be the source of the re
ek. Worse, he wondered what sort of beings might dwell in such a place? Nightmare tales of undead horrors and the twisted perversions of Chaos gathered in his mind.
At last, when the smell had grown strong enough to bring tears to Brega's eyes, the trees parted into a slight clearing. A massive old oak tree dominated the far side of the clearing. It was ancient, its bulk as wide as a house. It was also dying: half of its branches were bare and twisted as the claws of a skeleton, many others sported sickly yellow leaves. The huge, serpent-like roots of the tree bulged from the dirt. And beneath them, the ground had been undermined, small holes angled downward into the earth. Only a few yards from the holes lay a huge pile of greasy black and green matter. Black horseflies buzzed about the reeking pile. The sight of the dung mound made Brega retch.
Small figures prowled about the openings of the holes. They were slight, thin-limbed creatures, somewhat like malnourished children in overall shape. Their heads were large, with long sharp noses, and pointed dog-like ears. Their grinning mouths were filled with sharp teeth. None of them was more than twenty inches high, and none wore more than a grimy scrap of cloth or fur about its waist. The pallid green skin of the creatures was hairless and glistened like the hide of a salamander.
The miserable things turned as the two men entered the clearing. Scores of tiny red eyes considered the bounty hunter and his prisoner.
Brunner did not meet their confused, idiot gazes, but carefully sighted his pistol on the largest of the snotlings, whose arms were cradled about a rusty kitchen knife as though it were a great sword.
Brunner fired the pistol. The shot pulverised the tiny goblinoid, shattering its head and shoulders, and spraying its fellows with a greasy green paste. The other snotlings mewled pathetically as the roar of the pistol echoed about the clearing. They dropped whatever they were carrying and scrambled back into their holes.