by Warhammer
From the corner of his eye, Brunner could see the other mutant working his way toward the bounty hunter's back, a short boarspear gripped in its malformed hands. Unable to free himself from his duel with the pestigor, Brunner knew there was little he could do to protect himself from a stab in the back. The bounty hunter tried to manoeuvre his massive foe around, to place the pestigor between himself and the spear-bearing mutant. But the beastman would have none of it, accepting a slash to its forearm in return for holding its ground. It too had seen the mutant moving toward Brunner's back and was not about to surrender such an advantage.
The sound of steel crunching through bone rumbled through Brunner's ears, followed by the impact of a body falling somewhere behind him. The pestigor's goat-like face contorted into a mask of feral rage and the bounty hunter could guess the source of its fury - the spear-bearing mutant had just been shot down. Brunner did not give the pestigor time to turn its rage into strength. Slipping past the monster's guard, he slashed his sword along its gut, spilling its entrails into the dust. The beastman stumbled backward, the mace falling from its claws as it reached down for the ropy mess hanging from its belly. Brunner slashed at the monster again, this time nearly severing its forearm. The pestigor lifted its horned head, roaring its rage into the barren sky, bloody froth spilling from its jaws. As Brunner moved in for the kill, the pestigor lowered its head, spitting a stream of filth into his face.
It was the bounty hunter's turn to stumble back from his foe, one gloved hand wiping away at the gory muck that now covered his features, finding with disgust that the pestigor's bloody spittle was alive with writhing, wormy shapes. Brunner cleared his eyes just in time to see the pestigor bearing down on him, its remaining claw crunching down about his shoulder, its powerful grip seeking to pull the bounty hunter into the massive horns that curled against the monster's skull. Brunner stabbed into the beastman's side with his blade, punching the length of his sword into the monster's corrupt flesh, transfixing its blackened heart. The pestigor fell to its knees, its eyes glaring into Brunner's own as its unclean life slowly drained from its twisted form. The grip on his shoulder loosened and Brunner watched dispassionately as the pestigor fell backwards and crashed into the dust.
The bounty hunter looked away from his fallen foes, looking back toward his animals. Three mutants lay sprawled about them, and two others looked to have fallen victim to the mysterious sharpshooter who had so fortuitously come to his aid. The others were fleeing back down the road, forsaking the promise of loot and provisions in their haste to save their own hides. Brunner strode toward his horses, keen to inspect the animals for any sign of injury and to recover his crossbow from Fiend's saddle, lest the twisted ambushers regain their courage. As he approached, Fiend and the packhorse, Paychest, retreated from him and it was only with slow steps and soothing words that he was able to keep the horses from bolting. Patting Fiend's neck with a gloved hand, Brunner quickly removed his crossbow from its holster, slapping the box-like magazine into place. He turned his head in the direction from which he judged the mysterious steel shafts to have originated. He was not surprised to find a lone rider descending the jagged slope of a low hill. Leaning against the side of his horse, keeping his crossbow at the ready, Brunner awaited the approach of his unknown benefactor.
His wait was not a long one, and soon Brunner found himself confronted by a tall, slender man mounted on a white steed of similar build, a mount built for speed rather than war. The man himself was garbed in black, from the leather boots that encased his feet to the leather hat on his head. A leather belt crossed the man's chest, long steel spikes fitted into the loops that rose along its surface. A number of box-like pouches were fitted to the belt that circled the warrior's waist, along with a longsword and poinard, both of the simple, utilitarian style favoured by Tilea's professional duellists. Resting upon the saddle before the rider was a strange device, a thing of steel and bronze that looked as though it could not decide if it were musket or crossbow.
Brunner looked up into the face hiding within the shadow of the rider's hat. It was a gaunt, hungry face, with cruel eyes that gleamed with an almost feral cunning. The man's sharp nose stabbed downward above a thin, almost lipless mouth and a slender black moustache. It was the kind of face Brunner knew only too well. The face of a predator. The face of a man like himself.
'I hope you don't mind the intrusion,' the rider said when he brought his horse to a stop a few yards from Brunner, 'but it looked like you had bitten off more than you could handle.' The weaseleyed man chuckled with grim humour. 'Even the infamous Brunner isn't the equal of a dozen beastmen.'
'Perhaps they didn't know who I was.' Brunner returned, 'or they would have brought twice as many.' The jest brought another sardonic chuckle from the rider. Brunner fixed the other man with his cold stare, the leather of his gloves creaking as he firmed his hold on the crossbow. 'Tell me, Sabarra, how is it that you happen to be in the right place at the right time? I've never been one to place much trust in providence.'
Sabarra grinned back at the other bounty hunter. 'If you are thinking I was expecting you, then you'd be right. There are things we should discuss, you and I.' The rider leaned back in his saddle, gesturing at the dead mutants strewn about the road. 'But it can wait until we put a little distance between ourselves and the road. Just in case their friends stop running and decide to come back this way.'
The two bounty killers took the southern stretch of road, a move that took them away from the village of Decimas. Sabarra's eyes narrowed, studying his rival with undisguised interest and suspicion. For his part, Brunner seemed to be paying little attention to the Tilean, rubbing at his face with a cloth he'd dampened from his waterskin. Sabarra was not fooled by the display, he knew that the Reiklander was even now turning any number of schemes to rid himself of Sabarra over in his mind.
'You know of course that I'm after the same mark as you.' Sabarra declared. It was better to get the matter out in the open sooner rather than later. 'It's a handsome price Riano has on his head.' Brunner did not turn to regard Sabarra, instead dousing the cloth in his hand with more water from the skin. 'Enough for two men, if they aren't greedy.' Sabarra elaborated. Brunner turned cold eyes onto the weasel-faced killer.
'And what if the men in question are greedy?' he inquired. A cruel smile split Sabarra's features.
'Then things could get very upsetting.' Sabarra said. 'One of the men might get there before the other. That might not be so good if Riano has some friends with him.' The bounty hunter's gloved hand whipped upward, catching a buzzing fly between its fingers. 'And, of course, he'd also have to worry about his back.' Sabarra warned, crushing the fly in his fist. 'Because even if he won out, he'd still have something the other man wanted.'
'And what if the men decided they weren't greedy?' Brunner asked, lowering his hand. Sabarra's eyes narrowed with concern as he noticed how near to his pistol Brunner's hand was now poised.
'They might decide to share,' the Tilean suggested. 'Split everything down the middle. The dangers and the gold, divided up equally between them. Rather a good idea with the countryside crawling with beastmen and half-mad with plague.'
Brunner nodded thoughtfully, then lifted the cloth back to his face. 'Of course, they would be foolish to stop watching their backs,' he warned. Sabarra didn't bother hiding the cunning look in his eyes. 'But let's say these men did reach an agreement, where would they start?'
'By sharing information,' Sabarra told him. 'For instance, why are we riding away from Decimas rather than toward it?'
'Because, as we both know, Riano isn't there,' Brunner said. 'Decimas is gone, the red pox has already done its work there.'
'Then why south?' pressed Sabarra. Brunner continued to rub at his face.
'You should spend more time learning about your prey,' Brunner said. 'Don't place all your wager on a single informant. I have my reasons to believe Riano headed south if he had to quit Decimas.'
'And those woul
d be?' Sabarra asked.
'I prefer to keep that information to myself,' Brunner replied. 'That way I won't have to watch my back.' The Reiklander continued to dab at the blistered skin of his face, trying to soothe the raw, irritating itch that had seeped into his skin. Sabarra's smile widened as he noted the ugly rash.
'I'd be worried about that,' he told Brunner. 'Who knows what foulness was in that animal's blood. I'd get myself to the nearest hospice of Shallya if I were you. Let the priestesses bleed the contamination out of you. Maybe let someone else finish this hunt for you, bring you your percentage later.'
Brunner threw the cloth down. 'Either I die or I don't,' he told Sabarra. 'I'll not go crawling to anybody, not even the gods. I'm through with all of that, through playing their games.'
'Have a care,' Sabarra warned his rival. 'You die and I might never find Riano. I'd hate to miss that payday because an impious fool went and caught the plague.'
Brunner's response was spoken in a tone as menacing as the grave. 'Then I suggest you start praying I don't get sick.'
The disease-ridden mutant crept into the foul-smelling hovel, bent almost in half, cringing at every step as though it were a whipped cur rather than a man. The room he had entered was a shambles: furniture overturned, walls fouled with blood and mucus, the air filled with buzzing flies. Bodies littered the floor, their skin blackening as necrotic bacteria speedily consumed their diseased flesh, the final trademark of the ghastly red pox. But it was not this reminder of the hideous disease that so unnerved the once-human wretch. It was the five armoured shapes looming against the far wall.
The warriors were huge, hulking monsters, their powerful forms encased within suits of plate armour, the steel pitted with corruption. Upon their breastplates had been stamped the mark of their deity, the daemon god to whom each of the corrupt warriors had pledged his life and soul. Three circles and three arrows the mark of Nurgle, Grandfather of pestilence and decay. The close-faced helms of the Chaos warriors did not turn to regard the mutant as he slowly crept toward them, intent instead on the miserable figure sprawled upon the filthy floor before them. It was an old man, his body disfigured by the profusion of red boils that peppered his skin. His diseased frame trembled and shook as the agonies of the plague ripped at him, yet the Chaos warriors made no motion to end his suffering. Plague was the handiwork of their god, and to the Chaos warriors, what they were witnessing was a holy sacrament, and they stood as if in the presence of their loathsome deity.
Nervously, the mutant cleared his throat, allowing a dry croak to escape his drawn, placid lips. The sound caused the warriors to turn their steel faces upon him, fixing him with their burning eyes. The mutant fought back the urge to flee, holding his ground as the centremost of the armoured warriors strode toward him. He was a brute, his steel armour fading into a mass of green corruption, leather straps hanging from spikes set into his shoulder-guards displaying a variety of festering trophies. The warriors helm was cast in the shape of some mammoth insect and there was no sign of any eyes behind the sieve-like holes that pitted the helm's face. The mark of pestilence branded into the warrior's breastplate glowed with a leprous light, marking the creature as favoured by his daemon master a champion of Chaos.
'Zhere izz reazon why you dizurb uzz,' the droning, buzzing voice of the champion echoed from within his helm. The mutant cowered before the unnatural voice, falling to his knees before the ghastly creature. Pulstlitz gave the mutant only a moment to answer before growing impatient, his armoured hand falling to the massive sword at his side, a gigantic blade of rusted steel that drooled a murky scum from its pitted edge, the filth falling to the floor in sizzling droplets.
'Mercy dread master!' the mutant cried in a voice that seemed to bubble from the bottom of his stomach. 'Your slave did not mean to disturb your devotions! I came to bring word that Folgore is not coming back.'
A seething growl rasped behind the insect-helm. Pulstlitz took another menacing step toward the mutant. 'That vermin darezz defy my command! I will carve the name of Pulzlizz upon hizz bonezz for zhizz betrayal of Nurgle!' The other Chaos warriors watched their master warily knowing too well that when their champion was in such a state, death hovered near. The mutant buried his face into the floor, unwilling to gaze upon the favoured of the Plague God.
'Folgore is dead, master!' the mutant whined. 'Slain upon the road by a traveller who wore not the blessings of the Grandfather!'
'You rizked attack when I commanded you here?' Pulstlitz demanded, the droning buzz of his voice seeming to come not from one but a dozen throats. 'When I need every mangy beazman and acolyte? When I prepare to raze the hozpizz of thrice-accurzed Zhallya? It izz at zuch time you zee fit to dizobey?' The enraged plague champion lifted his armoured foot, bringing it smashing downward into the abased mutant. Bones cracked as Pulstlitz brought his weight down upon the mutant's neck, then ground the creature's skull into the floor beneath his foot. When nothing solid remained beneath his boot, Pulstlitz turned to his warriors.
'We wait no longer!' the Chaos champion droned. 'Zhiz night we ride for the hozpizz! I will zee it burn!' The warriors did not pause to question their leader's command, but hastened to follow the monster into the night, leaving the old man to complete his communion with the Plague God in solitude and silence.
Sabarra watched as the white walls of the structure finally manifested in the distance. The bounty hunter cursed under his breath. It was about time he encountered some manner of luck. Since setting out after the price on Riano's head, he'd been met by obstacle after obstacle. It was as if the gods themselves were hurling every misfortune they could conceive in Sabarra's way, as though he were some mighty hero from some Luccini fable rather than a hired killer just trying to maintain a comfortably hedonistic lifestyle. The bounty hunter spat into the dust of the road. The gods! As though they were paying any manner of attention to him. They certainly were not in the mood for answering prayers.
The bounty hunter looked over his shoulder, back at the train of animals that slowly plodded along behind him. Slumped in the saddle of the rearmost horse was Sabarra's old rival and recent partner, Brunner. The Tilean cursed again. He'd warned Brunner against mocking the gods, but the miserable Reiklander had remained unrepentant. Now he was sick, contaminated by whatever filth had lived within the loathsome blood of the pestigor he'd killed. For three days now, Brunner had been slipping in an out of consciousness as the disease wracked his body.
Sabarra shook his head, cursing his ill luck. During his lucid moments, which were becoming less and less frequent, Brunner's mind had wandered, crawling through the muck of the bounty hunter's bloody career. But he'd still retained enough coherency that he did not respond to Sabarra's promptings for more information most especially with regards to Riano and whatever hole the thief had relocated himself to. Some deep-rooted instinct of selfpreservation stilled Brunner's lips at such times. The bounty hunter's eyes had cleared for a moment, boring into Sabarra's own. 'Get me to a healer,' Brunner's voice had rasped. 'Then I'll tell you what you want to hear.'
By rights he should have left Brunner behind. Sabarra had seen enough of the red pox in his time to recognise its early stages. But the image of the gold being offered for Riano's head had been too tempting. So, Sabarra had lifted the sickly warrior into the saddle of his horse, tying Brunner's hands about the animal's neck, his legs beneath its belly. With Brunner secured to his animal, Sabarra had set out for the only place he could think of where a man suffering from the red pox might find sanctuary and succour. He only hoped that Brunner would last long enough to reach it.
The white walls grew steadily in size, the narrow cross-shaped windows and massive supporting buttresses breaking up the smooth alabaster facade. Sabarra could make out ragged figures huddled in the shadow of the walls, a great sprawl of wretched humanity. The bounty hunter's spirits fell another notch. Just how widespread was this plague? It looked like half of Tilea was camped outside the walls. He risked another look over
his shoulder, striving to see if Brunner had reacted at all to the sight, but the man remained as he had for more hours than Sabarra wanted to count. The Tilean looked back toward the walls, noticing this time the vast pit that had been torn from the earth some distance to the west of the structure. Dour, hooded figures were busy there, throwing naked bodies into the yawning chasm as though tossing seed across a field. It was a minute before Sabarra released the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. Of all the ends he could imagine, being consigned to a plague pit was probably about as bad as it got. Sabarra looked back once more at his charge and scowled.
So long as he found out what he wanted to know, Sabarra didn't much care where Brunner wound up. All the Reiklander had to do was cling on to life long enough to become lucid one last time.
An aura of misery so intense that it seemed to clutch at Sabarra's face greeted the bounty hunter as he drew nearer the white-walled structure. The Tilean struggled to avoid looking down, tried not to see the dejected, forlorn creatures that sprawled upon the ground all around them. Many looked dead already, only the glazed eyes that rolled within their boil-strewn faces betraying the fact that they yet drew breath. Some of these miserable creatures had managed to build crude tents of rag and fur, but the vast majority just lay upon the ground, exposed to the open air and the chill of night. Sabarra tried not to imagine how many of these lost souls would make the journey past the portal of Morr before the sun again rose. Perhaps it was even a kindness to allow them to expire from exposure rather than the suffering the red pox would wrench from their bodies before it was through with them.
Sabarra slowly moved the horses through the sprawl of diseased refugees, the animals hard-pressed to avoid stomping on the miserable wretches. The bounty hunter allowed a slight sigh of relief to escape his throat as he saw the arched doorway that led into the structure behind the white walls and the shimmering marble dove that loomed above the arch's cornerstone. 'Well, friend,' Sabarra declared, glancing back once more at the still unmoving Brunner, 'this is it. The Shrine of the Seven Mercies. The hospice of Shallya.'