Brunner the Bounty Hunter (Blood And Steel)

by Warhammer

  'The good horseflesh is kept up top, well beyond the muck and the smell,' the mercenary laughed as he handed the reins of his steed to a haggard-looking groom. 'Actually, old Mandalari, the man in charge of Prince Gambini's guard, gave the order to keep all cavalry horses on the lower level where they would be ready if they were to be needed at short notice.'

  'Pretty sound reasoning,' commented Brunner as he removed a crossbow and a large leather bag from his packhorse. He nodded to one of the waiting stablehands and the young boy came forward to lead the animal away.

  'I understand that he served as general of Remas's army before he lost his leg in battle with Miragliano,' Zelten shook his head. 'Still, if his body is weaker, his mind is still sharp and displays some good tactical sense. Prince Gambini listens to him too. I don't think any other palazzo on the Great Reman Bridge is more ready for another insurrection if such a thing were to come to pass.'

  Brunner faced the mercenary, seeming to study him closely. 'That sounds almost like a street hawker's pitch,' the bounty hunter said. Zelten nodded his head.

  'You could do worse than hire on with Prince Gambini,' Zelten said. 'Trust me, he's a lot better than most I've taken service with. He actually understands that he doesn't know everything about everything and listens to those around him when they have advice to give. He's not the sort to throw away his men on some mad scheme to retake the Badlands, and that means a lot to a mercenary.'

  'That might be why it means little to me,' commented Brunner, unfastening his long-barrelled handgun from the side of Fiend's saddle. 'I'm not one of your mercenaries.'

  Zelten reached forward and gripped Brunner's shoulder. 'You could be,' he said. 'I saw you fight, you're good, probably better than me. I could use you. I'm short ten men after the fight with the plague warriors. Recruiting you would go far to filling out that shortfall.'

  Brunner shook his head. 'I agreed to come here with you. There was mention that Prince Gambini might be prepared to offer some reward as recompense for my part in defeating Pulstlitz and his mob. That's why I'm here.'

  'Don't you get tired of it?' Zelten asked. 'Always on the move, calling no man friend or comrade? Always having to keep one eye open for that knife at your back?'

  Another groom came forward and led Brunner's bay towards the stall in which Paychest had been placed. The bounty hunter looked back at Zelten. 'I've done pretty well on my own.' he said. 'I don't think I'd do so well splitting the money.'

  Whatever retort Zelten was preparing was lost as the noise of jingling bells sounded from the entrance to the stables. The mercenary and the bounty hunter both turned around. Brunner expected the noise to have originated from some expensive and outrageous harness on some equally expensive and outrageous horse. Instead he found himself looking at one of the oddest creatures he had ever seen.

  The man was tall, his arms and legs on the thin side and seemed too long for his body. His face was sharp, the nose upturned slightly, like the bent bill of a finch, the cheek-bones high and his skin somewhat pallid, despite the Tilean cast of his features. The man wore a checkered tunic and matching checkered breeches, pale-blue against bright grey. A matching rounded cap sporting an enormous red feather perched atop the man's head of lengthy black hair. The man's thin hands sported a number of gaudy rings and gripped a tall staff of dark wood. Topping the staff was a bronze head, fashioned to resemble a grinning goblin, a pair of silver bells dangling from each side of the head. The eyes that regarded the stables were bright and friendly and his long face was spread by a broad smile.

  'I am pleased to be the first to greet you, captain.' the tall man said, bowing slightly at the waist. Zelten strode forward quickly. Brunner noted the haste in his companion's steps and discreetly fingered the grip of his pistol. He relaxed slightly, however, when he noted the bright, eager look in Zelten's eyes. Clearly whatever this foppish shape represented, the mercenary did not regard him as a menace.

  'Corvino!' the mercenary shouted. The foppish man bowed his head once more as the mercenary addressed him. Before Zelten could add anything to his greeting, Corvino spoke again.

  'I was here to give you a message.' he said, 'and to conduct you to the palazzo with all haste.'

  Zelten nodded to the tall man, then looked over at Brunner. 'This may take some time.' he apologised, his words rapidly spoken. 'Please consider my offer again. When Tacca arrives, I'll present you to Prince Gambini.' Having said his piece, the mercenary turned and was led away by the garishly costumed Corvino.

  'And who exactly was that?' Brunner asked, directing his question at Horst. The large, wild-haired soldier was leaning against the wall support of the stall in which his horse stood.

  'Corvino, Prince Gambini's fool,' replied the warrior, casting a sour look after the departed men.

  'You don't sound like one of his admirers,' the bounty hunter said. Horst detached himself from the wall and strode toward Brunner.

  'Let's just say I don't share his sense of humour,' the bearded man said, sucking at his teeth. 'Manfred's had some dealings with him, the fool is always bringing him messages at all hours of the day. I'm sure he's gotten Manfred involved in some matter he'd be better off not being entangled with.'

  'So, all is not quite as idyllic in the Gambini household as your captain would paint it,' commented Brunner. The bounty hunter rolled his shoulders, resettling the weapons and bags he had removed from his horses. 'Perhaps you might show me where you men are billeted. This gear isn't getting any lighter.'

  Horst nodded his head. 'Come along, I'll show you where our barracks are.' Brunner began to follow the warrior out of the stables.

  'Once I'm situated, perhaps you might also suggest a good tavern in the vicinity,' Brunner said. 'I imagine that Tacca will be some time ensuring the safe storage of his goods. Long enough that I might have a chance to wash the taste of the road from my mouth.'

  Horst chuckled as Brunner spoke. It was the first sign of anything approaching human feeling the bearded mercenary had heard the bounty hunter give voice to. He did not know that the bounty hunter was not looking for ale and wine. His desire to find a drinking hole was not to find drink, but to fish for information. It had been the bounty hunter's experience that taverns gathered as much lore within their walls as any library, you just had to know how to ferret it out. If the soldiers of Prince Gambini frequented a particular establishment, there might be some useful information that the seemingly indifferent barkeeps and serving wenches might have heard and remembered.

  Brunner was led past the towers on the edge of the bridge, before turning left, toward the lagoon and the waterfront. The bounty hunter knew that Horst's reasons for escorting him were based on suspicion rather than any concern for the bounty hunter's safety, but he was also realistic enough to know that it would save him considerable time having a guide in the unfamiliar city, whatever the man's motives might be. If he decided that he did not want the bearded mercenary looking over his shoulder, it would be easy enough for him to lose the big man.

  The streets leading from the Great Reman Bridge to the waterfront were a marked contrast to the blighted, fear-haunted lanes Brunner and Zelten had travelled before. Instead of dour, silent buildings, here thrived all manner of businesses. Alehouses, wine shops, taverns and grog shops were in abundance, their wooden signs displaying names often as creative as they were vulgar. Brothels, fighting pits, gambling houses and weirdroot dens openly enticed their patrons from the street with vividly painted depictions of the vices they offered to sate. Remas was a prosperous city, thriving upon both the mercantile goods brought to the port from lands as near as Luccini to as distant as Marienburg, and as exotic as the cities of Araby. It was not unknown for a trading ship of the elves of Ulthuan or one of the great steam-powered ironclads from the dwarf port of Barak Varr to visit the city. Beyond such trade, the city of Remas boasted the most prosperous fishing fleets in the Old World, their fishermen pulling catches from the surrounding waters and the inland lagoon itself that
were unrivalled in any other land. Indeed, much of the vast catch was preserved in salt and shipped across the length and breadth of Tilea, drawing still more gold into the coffers of the city.

  The salty tang of the sea was heavy here, the occasional greyfeathered gull circling overhead, its squawking cry adding to the din of the street. Though the close streets denied him any view of the lagoon, evidence of its nearness was everywhere. The streets were filled with men from dozens of lands. Brunner could see sailors from Tobaro in their stripped, loose pantaloons rubbing shoulders with scar-faced mariners in the blue and gold of Marienburg. Dusky skinned Arabyan traders, their heads encased in wound turbans, jostled against black moustached ship captains from Estalia, croaking, cawing birds perched upon the shoulders of their crimson tunics. Sometimes a common fisherman would push his way through the crowd, a net filled with wriggling scaly shapes dripping from his back, destined for the larder of some nearby grog shop or tavern.

  Interspersed between the houses of entertainment were crammed all manner of stalls and shops, virtually any ware imaginable presented to entice the custom of passers-by. Here, the bounty hunter's progress was hindered by larger crowds of people and animals, the air a constant murmur of voices speaking in a dozen dialects and nearly as many languages. He could see hawkers peddling everything from dried fish to rusty old pieces of armour to trained, swan-necked fisher-birds wherever a bare patch of wall gave them a place to stand.

  Entertainers blocked the mouths of alley ways, small crowds gathered about them, watching with rapt attention as they performed, sometimes tossing copper, or more rarely silver, into the upturned hat or bowl set before them. Brunner saw an Arabyan snake charmer carefully taunting a fell-looking hooded serpent, swaying its body in time with the Arabyan's movements, the dusky skinned man sometimes leaning forward to tap the reptile's head with his finger, much to the thrill of the crowd. Just a few yards away, across the narrow street, a pretty Strigany woman danced before a cheering crowd of sailors and soldiers, her shapely hip batting against the tambourine held in her hand as she whirled before them.

  Brunner was just considering that obviously the stern, unrelenting discipline of the cult of Solkan must not apply to this district, that the disciplinarian temple must confine its activities to the outer reaches of the city, when he noticed a pair of white-cloaked figures stalking through the crowd, their faces hidden behind their wooden masks. The bounty hunter tensed, hand falling automatically to the hilt of his gigantic knife. Normally, he thought of the Headsman more as a tool than a weapon, but in the thick press of bodies around him, a sword would be unwieldy. What was coming would be work for a knife.

  Horst noted Brunner's action and chuckled. 'No reason to be worried about them,' he laughed. 'Not here, anyway. The temple knows better than to try and push the people here. It would be bad for business, and the council wouldn't look too favourably on that.' The bearded mercenary laughed again. 'Besides, the people around here would push back! No, those fanatics prowl around here just to remind people that they're around, to remind the credulous that their heathen god is always watching.'

  'I'm surprised that the rulers of Remas tolerate them at all,' commented Brunner as he watched the crowd swallow up the two zealots. Horst shook his head.

  'This isn't the Empire,' he said. 'They have strange ideas down here in the south. Odd ways of waging war and odd ways of governing their cities. Remas, for instance, is a republic. No single ruler, but a council of fifty elected and appointed by the good people of Remas, with a triumvirate of their choosing above them.

  In theory, any citizen could sit on that council, though in practice only the richest of the merchant princes ever do. But even so, they have to be very careful about just how much power they exhibit. There have been numerous wars here, uprisings when some ambitious triumvir decided to try and seize control from the council and the other triumvirs, or when the council itself grew too corrupt and self-serving. Insurrection is probably the biggest thing the inhabitants of this city fear.'

  The two men continued to make their way through the crowd. Brunner noticed a few soldiers in the colours of the republican guard walking past them, clearly headed back toward the bridge. What made them noticeable to the bounty hunter was the fact that they were the first soldiers he had seen since leaving the towers behind. As if picking up on his thoughts, Horst continued to explain the state of things in the city.

  'Above all, the people feel that they control the government, even if they do nothing more than change which faces fill the council every few years. They don't like any show of force, don't tolerate a large army within their walls, an army that could be used against them.' Horst paused before a man selling small iron bucklers, inspecting one of the small shields before handing it back to the trader and continuing. 'That is where the Temple of Solkan comes in. While the people won't tolerate the council sending companies of soldiers through the streets, who are they to question a god? When the temple was first founded, they were just another cult, just another pack of priests preying on the gullible.'

  Brunner caught a note of resentment and scorn in the mercenary's voice as he spoke of the gullible. 'But slowly the council began to see a way that they might turn the cult's fanaticism to their advantage. They began to turn a blind eye to the temple's witch hunts, to their often violent excesses of faith. Those who protested the actions of the temple to the council somehow were found out by the cult and exposed as daemon-worshippers and heretics. Naturally, very soon there was no one willing to stand up against the temple. Where an army of soldiers could not be used to keep the people in their place, an army of religious fanatics has. So long as they don't interfere with the mercantile interests of the city and don't bother the nobles, the temple is allowed to conduct itself pretty much as it pleases.'

  Brunner shook his head, marvelling at the ruthless politics of the city. Better a tyrant secure in his position than a gathering of politicos frightened about maintaining their own status.

  The two men continued to walk along the busy street, the light of day slowly giving way to the long shadows of the night. Lamplighters began to appear, igniting the numerous oil lanterns fastened to the walls of the buildings that lined the street. Ahead, Brunner could see that the street made a sharp turn. Set in the angle of that turn was a small wooden stage. The bounty hunter could see a pair of the whitecloaked followers of Solkan flanking the structure, though their presence did not seem to deter a small crowd from gathering to watch the performance.

  Drawing nearer, Brunner saw that what was going on was a puppet show. A number of robed puppeteers stood above the stage, manipulating several wooden dolls by means of numerous strings leading from the dolls to the wooden handles held by the entertainers. Brunner paused for a moment, watching the curious performance. A number of tiny wooden figures in small cloth costumes pranced about the stage, in what was clearly intended to be fright. A much larger puppet dominated the centre of the stage. It was clothed in a long black cloak, its face that of a grinning skull. In its hands it held a huge scythe. As the deathly puppet swung its scythe, several of the other puppets dropped as though they had been slain.

  'I did not realise that the cult of Solkan had dealings with the cult of Morr,' Brunner observed, indicating the puppet show. Like the masked men flanking the stage, the puppeteers also wore white cloaks. Clearly the performance was intended as some sort of passion play, a disguised sermon to minister to the wayward souls of the Reman waterfront.

  'No, thats not meant to be Morr,' replied Horst. 'Though I thought so myself. It is some sort of daemon, some fell creature that supposedly nearly destroyed Remas long ago, just after the elves had gone away. According to the cult of Solkan, the daemon was only stopped when Solkan sent a good spirit to do battle with it. They fought, so the cult says, for a year and a day before the good spirit overcame the daemon and imprisoned its soul in a bottle.' Horst allowed himself a short laugh. 'The cult says the spirit sent by Solkan was called a Viydagg, tho
ugh an elf ship captain I once talked to said that such spirits are associated with a goddess called Arianka, not Solkan. All heathen nonsense if you ask me.'

  A feeling of dread began to crawl up Brunner's spine as he watched the puppet daemon continue to cut down the little wooden people on the stage. 'What about the daemon?' he asked. 'Does it have a name?'

  'Yes,' Horst answered. 'They call it the Mardagg.'

  V

  He lay rigid in his bed, every muscle tensed. The man's skin seemed to crawl where it touched the blanket, as though it was alive with thousands of lice. The man slammed his fists against the mattress, trying to will the sensation away. There was nothing in his bedding, the man knew this, he knew that it was impossible for anything to be crawling across his skin. He boiled his bedclothes every night, accepting the warm dampness in exchange for the possibility of any six-legged thing scuttling across his flesh.

  The man gritted his teeth against the tormenting sensation, knowing that he had to overcome it before it grew worse, knowing that he would not. The smell of burning flesh filled his nose and the man groaned. He knew that it was not a real odour, that it was some phantom of his mind, but still its sickly stink made his stomach turn. He fought against the bile rising in his throat. He smashed his fists against the bedding once more, trying to force his senses to obey.

  Next would come the sounds. He moaned, praying, begging any god that would listen to spare him the sounds. But no god, it seemed, cared to hear him. First the rattle of chains slithered into the man's ears. Then the sound of harsh, brutal voices, voices snarling and laughing, cruel and wicked in their tones. Then the screams, such screams, echoing through his brain. Louder, louder, and louder still they grew. Why could they not just kill him? Why would the screams refuse to end? The tormented man folded the edge of his blanket and bit down upon it to keep from repeating the shrieks pounding upon the inside of his skull.